The Lands of Arnor: Free RP

[Marceline]

The Lands of Arnor
Free RP


(Image found here)

“Eriador was of old the name of all the lands between the Misty Mountains and the Blue; in the South it was bounded by the Greyflood and the Glanduin that flows into it above Tharbad. At its greatest Arnor included all Eriador, except the regions beyond the Lune, and the lands east of Greyflood and Loudwater, in which lay Rivendell and Hollin.”

-- The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A


“After Elendil and Isildur there were eight High Kings of Arnor. After Eärendur, owing to dissensions among his sons their realm was divided into three: Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan [. . .] In Arthedain the line of Isildur was maintained and endured, but the line soon perished in Cardolan and Rhudaur. There was often strife between the kingdoms, which hastened the waning of the Dúnedain. The chief matter of debate was the possession of the Weather Hills and the land westward towards Bree. Both Rhudaur and Cardolan desired to possess Amon Sûl (Weathertop), which stood on the borders of their realms; for the Tower of Amon Sûl held the chief Palantír of the North, and the other two were both in the keeping of Arthedain.”

- The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A

Regions
Arthedain: Arthedain was in the North-west and included the land between Brandywine and Lune, and also the land north of the Great Road as far as the Weather Hills.
Rhudaur: Rhudaur was in the North-east and lay between the Ettenmoors, the Weather Hills, and the Misty Mountains, but included also the Angle between the Hoarwell and the Loudwater.
Cardolan: Cardolan was in the South, its bounds being the Brandywine, the Greyflood, and the Great Road.
Enedwaith: The region between Arnor and Gondor, just south of Cardolan.

Note: many canon locations (Bree, Amon Sûl, Fornost, even the Shire, etc.) are located within each of the areas above - as such, feel free to be as broad or specific as you like when it comes to locations in your posts. Descriptions above are from Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings and Tolkien Gateway.

Rules:
1. Read and enjoy other people’s hard work but respect their privacy (go to the RP Request Form if you would like to join an existing story or start a new story)
2. All races are welcome! Timeline is whatever you like, from the beginning of Arda through the fourth age
3. Keep any OOC comments to the Minas Tirith City Hall OOC thread
4. Refrain from using overly bright colors or potentially incur the wrath of the TRs (Frost and Tara)
5. The above list of locations is by no means a complete list, feel free to use other locations or simply make your own
6. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread
7. We are all adults here and can decide for ourselves the stories we want to read so rather than dictate what can and cannot be written in this thread, we will ask that any CW (at the discretion of the writer) be placed at the top of the post.
8. Icons and small images are welcome, but please no moving gifs

Many thanks to @Prometherion for the collaboration on this!

[Marceline]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, the Prancing Pony
(Private with Frost)

GULP. Jake swallowed loudly. Me-Mow! Of course - he would never forget the cat assassin (catsassin?) who had infiltrated his own body and stabbed him repeatedly with a poisoned needle. That little sneak had hidden herself inside a delicious meat pie, and it had been the ravenous Jake’s misfortune to meet her. At the very least he could look back on the situation and feel proud that he’d done his part to save Wildberry Princess from Me-Mow’s dastardly scheme and foiled the tiny cat’s application to the Guild of Assassins at the same time.

Still, it’s not every day you are set up on a mission against a former foe. Who knew how big or deadly Me-Mow had grown in the intervening years? Perhaps she was as big as a house now and wielded deadlier poisons than before. Jake shivered nervously. Finn seemed more confident about the mission, pledging to Marceline that they’d get Me-Mow. Finn was a wonderful bro and buddy, and the best adventure partner in the whole world, but sometimes Jake wished his little brother would learn a bit of restraint, particularly when the situation called for Jake to be thrown first into harm’s way. He sighed and slumped a bit. There was nothing for it now: they were committed to the mission. It was time to go forth and find Ice King.

Jake puffed out his chest in mimicry of Finn’s gesture of bravado. “Yeah,” he chimed in, “we accept your prank. C’mon, you two,” he said, stretching himself over both Marceline and Finn, serving once more as a living shield from the rain. He walked them to the Prancing Pony’s door, shrank to his normal size, and opened the door. “After you, m’lady,” he said, sweeping out one long yellow leg in deference to Marceline.

* * *

“Excellent!” Marceline said. She knew she could count on these two. With their help, she’d have access to all the Ice King’s most ancient, personal secrets in no time. Sheltered beneath Jake, she walked with Finn to the warm, dry local inn. “Why thank you, good sir!” she said to Jake with mock formality. She floated on in and, after exchanging a nod of understanding with Barliman Butterbur, swept into a small room off the main tavern.

“Okay, weenies,” she said once she’d settled into a fluffy armchair. “Here’s the scoop. Ice King has his sights on two princesses, the ever-sweet Wildberry Princess, and the weirdo called LSP. No idea why he’s after this particular combination of princesses this time, but I’m sure he’s worked out how to capture them by now, and they’re probably already trapped in his domain.” From her back pocket, she withdrew a tattered, folded-up map and placed it upon the small table in their midst. She pointed to a series of extremely angular mountains jutting from the wastes of the far north. “This,” she said, jabbing a finger at the tallest of these mountains for emphasis, “is where Ice King lives. He’s got a pretty sweet setup inside the peak, but his most secret, highly-guarded dungeons are in the bowels of the place.” She pushed the map forward so Finn and Jake could see it more clearly in the flickering firelight.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Come in!” Marceline said. There was nothing so secretive about this that they couldn’t allow the staff in. Besides, she was famished. “I’ll take all of your reddest apples,” she said to the hobbit (she could never tell if it was Nob or Bob) who asked what they’d like. “And your most full-bodied red wine.”

Jake piped up, “Oh! Oh! Can I have a whole steak and kidney pie?” His eyes were wide with anticipation. Marcy laughed at his voracious appetite; it was like there was a monster living in his belly which made him eat all the time, and it was this appetite (and a meat pie, come to think of it) which had brought him face to face with Me-Mow back in the day.

“Just be sure there’s no assassins inside before you dig in this time!” she said with a laugh.

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, the Prancing Pony
(Private with Tara)

It was much warmer, and drier, inside the Prancing Pony. The smells of bread, stew, beer, and pastries filled the air. There was a homely feeling to this place. Finn had been coming here for as long as he could remember. Barliman had taken him in when he was a child and allowed him to meander around the common room until he was old enough to start working. That, of course, lasted all of a single afternoon. Finn-Adan, as it turned out, was not fit or the life of a server or innkeeper. Still, he owed the fat, forgetful man a deep debt of gratitude. He had met Jake here years ago, and they had become as close and inseparable as brothers. They even slept in the same room until they decided it was time for them to set out on their own and to start adventuring on their own. They still slept in the same room, it was now just in a giant hollowed out tree that also served as the base of their adventure operation.

It was so warm in here! Finn could already feel the cold and the wet being replaced by the dry warmth. There were multiple fires going in the absolutely packed common room. It had been that way every night as far back as Finn could remember. They found a seat and Marceline bounced into the fluffy armchair like she owned it (and given how old she was, there was a good chance she’d given it to Barliman and told him that it was hers and no one but her could sit in it). Jake sat and ordered enough food to last him through the end of the week, a habit he made every time they were here. Finn couldn’t blame his brother though, the food here was very, very good. Barliman’s secret was hiring experienced hobbit chefs from Buckland, the adventurous types that wanted to see the world. He’d hire them for a season then they’d go off exploring, come back and repeat the cycle.

“I’ll have the stew, with a side of sourdough, no rye bread. And a mug of the Prancing Pony’s finest!” Hob looked at him skeptically and frowned. “What? Oh, come on! I’m old enough! Hob! C’mon man!” The hobbit’s expression of disapproval did not waver. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave the young Edain the most disappointed dad look anyone had ever given anyone. Finn’s face reddened. “Fine! Give me some hot apple cider.” That met with Hob’s approval who scurried off with their order.

Once the hobbit was out of sight, Finn leaned over to Jake, “I’m gonna drink some of your ale. I am old enough. Old enough to kill goblins, old enough to drink ale. That’s what I always say.” He had not always said that but there it was. The rainstorm outside had chilled him to the bone. He was entitled to some warm ale!

“So,” he looked at the map Marceline, rubbing his chin. “Wow, this is pretty far up north. Like, a long ways away. I had no idea his fortress was all the way up in the Northern Wastes. Must get lonely up there.” Involuntarily, Finn shivered. It was almost like someone was watching them…

--- * --- * ---

There was someone watching them. There had been someone watching them from the moment they entered Bree. She was as quick and quiet as a shadow. For all intents and purposes, she was a shadow. She had come along ways since she had last encountered the duo. They had gotten the best of her that day, outsmarting and outthinking her, saving the life of the Wildberry Princess. But she vowed revenge. And revenge was something assassins too very seriously. She had been forced to return to her school of assassins utterly humiliated. Beaten by a dog and a young boy. It had been one of the darkest days of her life. Yet she redoubled her efforts, trained harder than ever before, mastered all the arts of poison and subterfuge. She knew she’d find them again.

They were not hard to track. The tales of their exploits had reached from Erebor to Minas Tirith, the adventuring duo, the dog and his boy. It burned her each time to hear of their success, but that burn fueled the fires of her rage and resentment. She kept a scrapbook of all the tales she heard, writing them down so as to reminder herself exactly who it was she was up against. She had not been prepared the last time they faced off, but she would be ready the next time.

And that next time was now.

All her muscles twitched, urging her to jump and attack them now, in the middle of the inn. There would be nowhere for them to run! They wouldn’t be able to hide from her this den of drunken sops. But she had a mission. Observe and report. Observe and report. Blowing her cover could have dire consequences from the man that hired her. She was much more afraid of him that she was of the trio down below. She watched from the rafters of the inn, crouched in a hidden alcove were a dozen shadows met, hiding her from even the keenest eyes.

Me-Mow was going to savor this victory. She purred and grinned.

[Raisins]

Mylien and Ruindil Raveara
Bar-en-Raveara

Fuin Elda has long dwelt in the Vales of Imladris either in the Tingdain, the Barracks of the Host or at times in the House of Healing, her dwelling though does not reside inside the safe haven provided by Elrond and his ring of power. Instead on a cliffs edge overlooking the Sundering Sea on the south side of the small peninsula that the forest of Eryn Vorn grew upon there is a Keep protected from the denizens of the woods about it by an equally tall wall, built over many years out of white stone was where she dwelt when she was not in the Valley.

The rough waters among the coast tend to keep ships from venturing ships too close unless they know the waters well and call the docks carved into a small cove just north of the Keep home keeping the Keep secret and safe from many prying eyes. The docks themselves or made of rock and wood and are shelter enough for five ships all crafted from the dark timber of the woods above the docks giving them a distinct dark look to them, with their red sails a warning to others before they can see the flags soaring on the mast as they are not Captained by Fuin but by allies and her Pirate wife and husband formerly of Dol Amroth. Today the banners did not fly above the Keep as Ruindil eased his ship built with Fuin's finances the Morifaire through the jagged rocks that kept his ship safe, his ship had it's black flag with a red Lion spitting fire flew high letting them know which ships were coming home. He glanced back Mylien was following close behind him in her own ship also bearing the red lion flag but instead of flames it bore about it a white gull the Limbërámë was a smaller and faster ship than his and he could see that she had the crew using it's 'wings' (a great many oars) were holding it from over taking the Morifaire which it would do with ease.

Within an hour the two ships were moored fast and the crew were happy to see help coming down from the Keep to empty the holds of the two ships Ruindil and Mylien both helping to direct where things went, ingots from the mines now held in the far east were carted up with a lift to the keep where they would be catalogued and set to travel to Imladris partially for Fuin's use in the Tingdain, the rest of the good were to go into the keep be it the treasury or the larder.

"Ye know ya should probably lead into wit Limbërámë, she's smaller and faster." Ruindil said grabbing his short wife as there was a lull in the unloading process.

"Aye but then I can't watch your arse though me looking glass." Mylien said with a cheeky smile that brought a snort from her husband who shook his head and give her a firm kiss.

"Well we can't have you missing out on me arse. It is spectacular." He said breaking the kiss. Myliens smiled and nodded.

"I'm glad we be agreement over it, I thought our wife was to be home though?" At that Ruindils green eyes glanced upwards towards the stairs that they would need to climb.

"Sometings prolly got 'er held up. Ye know how dem poncey elves be sometimes." Ruindil said calmly before they separated to finish up the unload and mooring process.

"Aye. Hopefully she's only a touch late." Mylien gave Ruindils backside a light smack before bouncing back to make sure the sails on her ship were stowed the anchor was down and the ballast was even so that the ships could be tended for the next few weeks while the crew relaxed on shore in the large Keep and the woods beyond the tall wall.

[Raisins]

Fuin Elda
One Days Journey North of Bar-en Raveara

She had learned strange news, and it had made her stop everything that she had been doing. It had made her question everything that she had been doing over the years. It had started as great pit in her stomach that made her ill just thinking about it. She had run from it at break neck speed when she had finally been able to without it seeming perhaps too strange. Aigrondign would undoubtedly tell Afarfin that this was normal for her now that he would get use to it, and that perhaps one day he'd be joining her on her strange disappearances into the wilds, or that he'd be enough of a balm for her soul that she would stop feeling the need for her forays and finally think about sailing into the west with him.

Into the west. The thought of it made bile rise in her throat and she hunched over and threw up bringing a snort from her horse who felt that she was being melodramatic. What would she tell Mylien and Ruindil? They knew that Afarfin had been killed but that he was reborn and had regained MOST of his memories if not all of them already? She had been about to wed him the night he'd died and elves tended to take such oaths deathly seriously. Would he want to pick up where they left off? She couldn't. She didn't know if he'd understand why she couldn't, perhaps he would it had been almost 6 thousand years since he had been killed.

She could see Eryn Vorn so close, the dark stain of the tall trees on the horizon. She would talk to Mylien and Ruindil first she loved them and would do anything to protect them, but Afarfin was as much a part of her soul as they were. Would they understand? She'd sort of stumbled into the relationship with them after going on the cruise that Aigronding had suggested she go on. She'd finally said her farewells to Afarfin on that cruise visiting his grave, she'd told them about that and now this. She pressed her heels into Lunes sides speeding his leisurely walk into a trot. She needed to get this over with she decided and the sooner she reached her keep then the sooner she would be able to talk with her family, that should have already arrived.

[Marceline]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, the Prancing Pony
(Private with Frost)

Jake and Marceline both laughed when Finn made the case for his eligibility to drink alcohol. “I’d give you some of my drink, except I need all this red goodness,” Marceline said. She dipped a pointy tooth into the red wine and slurped - the liquid became almost instantly transparent as she sucked the color from it. “Ahhh,” she sighed, satisfied. “That’s the stuff!” She set the still-full glass down and lifted an apple from the bowl that the hobbit runner had brought. She rubbed it clean on her shirt, good enough so that she could see her reflection in its shiny skin, and tossed it high into the air. It nearly collided with the old brass chandelier which hung in the center of the little room, almost directly above her. The old thing was dripping with dried out wax - that’s how many candles had burned out on it over the years. Marcy remembered when that chandelier had been brand new, shiny, and clean. Bree and the Pracing Pony had seen quite a few adventures and adventurers since then. She caught her apple and sucked out all its red while Jake and Finn bent over the map of the north. All the while, she hummed a little tune. “ . . . right there where you left it, lying upside-down . . .” she sang softly.

Jake, meanwhile, had inhaled his entire pie in a few large, messy bites. In his haste to gobble down his meal, he had not stopped to check for assassins. Luck was on his side this time: there were no miniature cats in sight. “Ha!” he laughed at Finn, his mouth still very full. “Too bad I didn’t even order any ale!” He looked down and saw a large tankard on the table before him. “Oh,” he mumbled. “They just know me too well here!” Jake set down the pie tin he’d been licking clean and guzzled most of the ale rather quickly. “Okay, buddy,” he said to Finn, “you can have this last little sip.” He offered the glass and its meager contents to his little brother.

By this point, Marceline had drained three more apples of all their red. She was feeling quite full. “It is way north. But that’s where we gotta go if we want to find Ice King. Those mountains are his domain - the Ice Kingdom, as it were. I’ve been up there before, on a scouting mission. It’s cold and icy and full of penguins. Don’t laugh! Those little guys are way deadlier than they look. So we’re gonna have to be reeeeaaaal careful. And you’ll probably want some warmer clothes.” Jake, who wore nothing but the dog hair on his back, would likely require a coat, perhaps some earmuffs, and maybe some little dog booties, too. Finn would need a whole new set of winter clothes. Marceline had her cold-weather gear stashed away in the room she was renting upstairs. She had hoped these two would agree to the mission, of course, but she had been prepared to find Ice King on her own if it had come to it.

“I think you’re right, Finn. Ice King must be lonely,” she went on. “Why else would he keep kidnapping princesses? But whatever the motive, what do you say we get supplies and head out in two days’ time?”

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, the Prancing Pony
(Private with Tara)

Without waiting for a second urging, Finn grabbed Jake’s mug and tipped it over, hoping for more than a mouthful of that wonderful bitter liquid. He should have known better. Jake was, first and foremost, a prankster. There was not even a half mouthful of ale left in the mug and, worse, it smelled like the inside of Jake’s mouth. Still, ale was ale. He closed off his nose and quickly gulped down what remained. If they kept this little routine up, Finn was going to lose his taste for beer and ale altogether. He spooned several helpings of the stew into his mouth to recover from the taste. Slowly, the metallic feeling in the back of his throat began to subside and he no longer felt like he was going to throw up. The stew was quite good, Finn had to stop himself from shoveling it into his mouth the way his older brother did. Barliman had taught him some sense of decorum after all. Still, that feeling of being watched never went away. He did his best to look around at the faces in the common room. None of the one he was able to see gave him more than cursory glance. Was it because there was nothing fear? Or was it because of Marceline’s presence? Only the most foolhardy or drunk tried to go after Marceline. Though she had a good reputation here in Bree, she was still a vampire. Finn had to remind himself of that every once in a while. She was lovely to hang out and go questing with, but that did not mean she was “tame” or “safe” in any sense of the words. He watched her as she drained the color from first the wine then the apple and suppressed a shudder.

He chose, then, to pay attention to the map. If he couldn’t get rid of the feeling of being watched, he was just going to have to concentrate all the harder. He rubbed his chin. Someday there was going to be hair there, he was going to have a glorious golden blonde beard, no matter what Jake told him about “eternal peach fuzz”. “Penguins?” he snorted, despite Marceline’s seriousness. “Aren’t they supposed to be in the south?” He squinted at the map, as if willing it to reveal the deception. “Hmmm, dangerous?” Finn had never seen a penguin, but he’d read about them in some of the books Barliman had, and there was the library at Ost Halatir that had a wealth of adventure stories.

He perked up at the mention of supplies. Supplies meant shopping, and shopping meant new things! There was always something refreshing about buying new things. Whenever he and Jake when to the markets, there was always a buzz of excitement and mystery. What were they going to buy? Was it going to be useful or end up being a cursed object? Would a quest come out of such a visit? Even buying supplies for a northward journey sounded interesting. Neither he nor Jake had ventured far into the Forodwaith. It was far, far too cold, and too close to the old kingdom of Angmar. That place gave him the Creeps (with a capital ‘C’). With Marceline nearby though, Finn had no doubt that their adventuring party would fare well.

“Kidnapping princesses,” he mused, “there’s got to be something behind it. Why would a creepy, demented guy like that need princesses? It’s not like he’s gonna usurp and rule over them, right? He doesn’t want land or taxes, what good would they do him that far north?” The mystery of the Ice King was going to be central to this mission. Rescuing LSP and the Wildberry Princess were only a part of it. Finn could tell his vampire companion was holding something back, but he didn’t press her. Her business was her business.

He just wished he could get rid of that feeling that someone was watching them. He looked up at the rafter and… nothing.

--- * --- * ---

Me-Mow sat on the rafter, coiled as tightly as she could to hide and shield herself from the cold. The winds were roaring outside, and the thatched roof offered very little in the way of comfort. It was hard to focus on her targets, Finn, Jake, and Marceline. She had to fight against her instincts to both jump down and kill them or to jump down and demand food and warmth all cats should be given upon arrival.

“Watch. Observe. Report.”

The voice echoed in her head as if a part of him was still there, looking over her shoulder. She could feel his icy breath, smell the penguins, if she closed her eyes she could see the miles and miles of pale icy blue that was his “kingdom”. But this was the life she had chosen. The life of the assassin. Her lineage went back far, it was noble and terrible. She was descended from Tevildo himself! Perhaps all this work would be worth it someday, someday she might have her own kingdom. She would be the Queen of Cats, she would not settle to be some princess. Not when she saw how fraught their lives seemed to be.

She had to move to listen better, the rain outside was distracting. They were going to be going north. That much she could tell. To confront the Ice King over his most recent kidnappings. But to what end? Did they think that they would just talk to him and he’d give up his prizes? That they could withstand the extreme, bone cracking cold he could create? Me-Mow rubbed her paw reflexively. The scorch mark was white, and the area was still numb, but there was an ache there that would not go away. A simple demonstration of his power. They were fools, all of them. Soon to be dead fools. Either by the hand of her employer or, hopefully, by her own wicked paw.

She’d done enough observing. It was time to report back to him. She wanted to wait for the rain to cease, but he would brook no excuses. With a hiss, Me-Mow pushed herself through the thatch and into the dark, wet night.

[Lailyn]

Renhir
Cardolan
Late autumn TA 3018
(Private)

“'You cannot destroy Ringwraiths like that,' said Gandalf. 'The power of their master is in them, and they stand or fall by him. We hope that they were all unhorsed and unmasked, and so made for a while less dangerous; but we must find out for certain.'”
- Gandalf, The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring

“...December was passing, when the scouts began to return. Some had gone north beyond the springs of the Hoarwell into the Ettenmoors; and others had gone west, and with the help of Aragorn and the Rangers had searched the lands far down the Greyflood, as far as Tharbad, where the old North Road crossed the river by a ruined town. [...]
In no region had the messengers discovered any signs or tidings of the Riders or other servants of the Enemy. [...] Of the Black Riders no other trace was to be seen, and nowhere was their presence to be felt. It seemed they had vanished from the North.”
- The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring

A Ranger’s labor never ceased. Through storm and stream, thistles and thorns, wrath and weariness, they watched, they listened, they hunted, they fought. They did not complain of the endless toil that had mounted in recent months. In September, Black Riders breached the borders of the Shire after forcing back the Rangers stationed at Sarn Ford. Renhir was not among them but he felt the weight of their defeat. He was already travelling Cardolan, setting out to investigate more trouble along the Greenway when word reached him from Imladris to scout the lands for any signs of the Nine. Pushed back at the Ford of Bruinen but not destroyed, they needed to be accounted for. He turned east from his path, in a prime position to find them.

When they came across folk as Black Riders, they were easy to follow. He had done it before. Those who told him of their passing with the whites of their eyes showing were as frightened of him as they were of them, the fools. He knew he did not have the princely manner or looks of his ancestors nor did he strive to. His dark eyes and heavy brows, the wild beard on his angular jaw and the permanent furrow in his brow did him no favors, but he had little patience for these simpletons who scorned and reviled him wherever he went. Rangers, he would hear them mutter and sneer, shifty good-for-nothings who skulk in the shadows. What did they know of darkness living between four comfortable walls with plentiful warm food to fill their bellies?

The more and more he watched and listened to them, the more he begrudged them their comforts while he suffered for their sake. Not just from the elements and the wilderness but the comrades lost, their bodies wounded and mangled beyond recognition, poisoned from the inside out, and sometimes simply too exhausted to go on. There were many ways for a Ranger to die in the wilds. He had skirted the edge of life more than once himself. Beneath his green mantle and leather hauberk, the bracers and layers of wool, were the scars that recorded the stories he would never tell. His life history was written on skin scraped out like letters in a book.

Renhir did not relish his duty and hadn’t for some time. But he would carry it out until his last breath or the end of all things. Whatever came first. Victory was too intangible to consider in these dark days when Nazgûl rode openly through the lands of the Free People. Unhorsed and unmasked, the Nazgûl left no discernible tracks nor other visible sign of their passing in the wilderness. It made the task more difficult. Only those who knew the land intimately, attuned to her cadence, could feel the little disruptions to her normal rhythm as the Ringwraiths passed by. Renhir felt these pulses of their presence like a single twig swaying against the breeze. Blink and risk missing them. Wherever their ghostly presence passed, he felt the earth tremble beneath his palms, the trees shudder and draw their branches in, shrinking away. As he came upon the Mitheithel, he knew he was hot on their trail by the way the river swirled and spun against its banks in revulsion.

The Nazgûl were moving south. Renhir drew his hood up and trudged on in pursuit.

---

A gathering fog loomed on the horizon, obscuring the paltry rubble of Tharbad not that there was much to see there anyway. The place was weathered and crumbling, overgrown and choked with weeds, another relic of a time long past when Men ruled proud and strong. Growing up and living in the remnants of a broken kingdom littered with more ruins than settlements had rendered the Ranger immune to the dismal decay before him.

The small pools and ephemeral ponds should have been teeming with swans dancing across the water, ducks in a kaleidoscope of plumages and raptors on the wing above waiting for an easy catch. Left in nature’s hands, these were the denizens of Tharbad now, filling the place with quacking and bugling and screeching. On this winter day, the place was utterly silent and still, like one waiting with bated breath before taking a deep plunge. Even the pebbles did not crunch under his feet.

They were close. They were here. One of them at least.

He knew they could not be defeated or killed with mortal weapons or wounds and still, he reached for his axe. He gripped the handle with surprising ease and held it aloft; if this was death, let it come, let it be swift. He was ready. Let me die at the hands of my enemy with what dignity I have left.

The axe cut through the air, passing through nothing. He swung his weapon in an arc to strike again when the Ringwraith released a heart-rending screech that nearly sent him to his knees. His limbs trembled as he felt despair take root in his chest and bury itself there. Renhir could see only a pale shadow amidst the fog, a wisp of his imagination but he knew the Nazgûl was there, with the dusky blue Gwathló behind and the green-clad Ranger before. He could feel it, the truest darkness he had ever known. It captivated and repulsed him in equal measure. His grip slackened and his axe fell to the ground. Cold enveloped him.

“You are weak and unworthy...you will not defeat me…” A voice hissed, wrapping around him and clamoring within his mind where it probed and pried until it recognized some piece of itself and settled there. Unintelligible words in Black Speech whispered in his mind, calling to him. He lurched forward, one step closer to the Enemy. Numbness rained down from head to toe. It was not wholly unwelcome and he closed his eyes to surrender to it…

Renhir’s senses returned with a jolt of rude awakening. The rushing of the river, the bright haze of the white-marred sky, the scent of the dust beneath his feet and every feeling, every ache in his bones and his body, every scar seared with pain as if rent opened again and slammed into him. The Ringwraith was gone. Renhir thought he heard cruel, cold laughter float across the riverbank from the far side.

He gasped as if he’d been drowning and fell to his hands and knees. Beads of sweat dripped down the back of his neck and he shivered. He felt as if he was coming down from a fever. Perhaps he was not as ready to die as he thought. He had looked death in the face, or near enough, and survived. But his reaction, teetering on the edge of abandoning his purpose, his humanity, his goodness, and his willingness to do so and the way part of him yearned for that hazy dullness again...Renhir did not know if that was some kind of Morgul magic or some evil already inside of him clawing for freedom.

You are weak and unworthy.

He knew it as well as the truth he did not want to recognize: it was not a Morgul spell. It was part of him already.

Renhir did not tell a soul of what he had seen or felt. He did not report his encounter with the Nazgûl in Tharbad. All traces of them were lost, as if they had vanished from the North, they said...Renhir knew different. He sought athelas and it soothed him for a time but no herb could distill the corruption from his soul.

[Baphởmet]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Tara)

The flames were bright and bloody. They were beautiful. The orange and red tongues of destruction lapped at the dry wood, hungry for sustenance. Smoke billowed, black and ominous until it became obscured in the darkness of the starless night. Delicately carved figurines of the Valar, precious and holy to the Eldar, fed the flames, dissolving in the entropic whirlwind. Images painstakingly painted into frescos that had long been abandoned went up like chaff. There was still a strength here. He could feel it. It was old and decrepit, sleeping and long past its prime. The elves had abandoned this place long ago, yet it stood in defiance. They had decided it was time to end that defiance with an act of blasphemy. Blasphemy was something they were good at, together or on their own, they had been a source of sin and sacrilege for decades. That it took so long for them to come together and stand against something so supposedly sacrosanct and not been lost on him. He was eager to see the place burn. Too long this “temple” had stood here, mocking the natural order of the world with its visions of hope and serenity, purity and goodness. Such things were lies from across the sea, from voices on high that no business ordering about the morality of those that refused bend a knee. He and his companion had concluded together that such a thing should no longer be allowed to stand in. They would send a message to the entire north of Middle-earth. They would set the beacon for self-reliance, freedom, and true justice. The shackles of the false lords of Middle-earth those that had cowered in face of an invasion from their ancestors and broke the world to hide from those that knew the truth of their power. The fire’s smoke was sweet, scented by the tinder of the natural herbs around them. This was no orc fight, meant merely to frighten and disgust. They had more class, more purpose, than that. This was cleansing fire. The smoke was thick and black, it burned his eyes as he stood watching, yet he did not blink. The smoke curled around his fingers like the shadowy tendrils of the will-o’-the-wisps. The heat was intense. It must be to be a cleansing fire. Nothing of the wretchedness could survive.

Frost stood defiant against the heat of the flames. Before they’d set the ancient temple alight, he’d gone inside and desecrated it with symbols sacred to the Witch-King and Zigûr, he ripped down the altars devoted to Aulë, defiled the trees and plants meant to give homage to Yavanna, then covered everything in the blood of a herd of goats and their keeper that had the misfortune of stumbling upon his rituals. The fire was beautiful. The heat was intense, he could feel the warmth seep into his bones and sear his skin. He would not move back, however. He wanted to feel the spirit of this place die. It had outlived the great lie of the Valar and remained, like they, hidden, trying to maintain its power and control over the land. No longer. Frost and Zôrzimril made sure that this temple and all the filth that it stood for, all the weakness and corruption it allowed to prosper, died tonight.

The fire could be seen for leagues and leagues. Everyone who lived anywhere close to this ruin would know what this was. Would they rejoice and call them heroes? No, but they would be free of it nonetheless and that reward, the promise of new generations no longer bound in gold filigreed chains, would be a gift to all that lived after them. Frost smiled. His deep ocean blue eyes reflecting the roaring flames. These flames were alive! He could feel the energy pulsating off them like the beating of a heart. His hands trembled despite himself. Had this been how Zigûr felt when he struck down Nimloth and set it ablaze? Had he felt this kind of power? Frost felt like he could do anything. He felt that if he began to flap his arms they would turn to wings and he could take flight, soar higher than the clouds and look down upon a vast world, a succulent peach waiting to be plucked from the tree. Did Zôr feel the same? Did she feel that power thrumming through the very grains of dirt beneath her? He hoped so.

He looked behind him. She was standing there, grey eyes on the flames as well. He could see the flames dancing in her eyes. Somehow in the glow of the destruction, she looked more beautiful. How was such a thing possible? He’d seen her in a hundred different environments and situations and postures, yet none of them compared to this moment. She was fiercer and more vibrant and wilder than Arien, the mistress of the sun. She was what one of the old Númenóreans in that light, powerful and defiant, unrestrained by weakling morality.

Then he saw something else in her. Something he had not seen before. Perhaps it was the heat haze, or the smoke dancing in his eyes, but he saw something in her. It was as if there was another image of her superimposed over her physical form. It was her, but it was not her at the same time. The image swayed with her, but it moved on it own. He squinted. It was Zôr, whatever it was, that was undeniable. The features of this wraith, this phantasm, this mirage, were hers, but they were altered just so. They appeared masculine, a strong jaw, a sneering lip, broader shoulders and narrower hips. It was lovely, intoxicating. What was it?

Frost finally moved away from the fire, curious to see this thing up close, but as he moved toward her, the image of the man, the Zôr that was not quite Zôr, dissipated. Like a whisp of cloud it faded into her until whatever signs of another presence was lost altogether.

Still, he moved to stand next to her. The heat of her body comparable to the heat of the arson. It was almost debatable as to which he preferred. Almost.

“The stars are so jealous of your beauty that they’ve hidden themselves away as you burn your own star this night,” he whispered, wrapping an arm about her waist.

[Marceline]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Frost)

The crown was so rotted by age and rain and sun that it was nearly weightless. It was a spiky thing, presumably fashioned to resemble a ring of sparkling stars, and it had long adorned the head of a Vala in the form of a woman raising her hands to the skies. Once an image of reverence and splendor, the statue had fallen from grace as it decayed and its erstwhile sanctuary fell into ruin around it. Dark stains like tear tracks ran down her face from her carved eyes, and the crown now exuded a sinister aura. Before they had lit the oil, Zôr had pried it off the head. The Vala’s gesture of supplication or reverence or self-worship, whatever it was, was fruitless. Whatever she had represented to the countless congregations of this shrine over the centuries would be dust soon enough - dust and ash, blowing forgotten on a chill night breeze. It mattered not whether it was the lady of the stars or the hunter astride his steed: they all burned in the end.

Zôrzimril turned the brittle crown in her hands while the flames danced their delight. The statue of the Vala from whom she’d stolen it toppled as its foundation burned away, sending a burst of sparks flying high above the flames. She smiled and began to snap off the stars one by one. Zôr walked about the burning mess, tossing each one to the conflagration like one might toss scraps of meat to a ravenous dog. The flames leapt to consume the stray bits of wood, long tongues nearly licking her bare arms and constantly threatening to consume her flowing skirts, too. Food might tame a starving dog, but there would be no taming this fire.

She was proud of this fire. Fire had long been her enemy, then a begrudging ally - but now it was the only tool for certain jobs. She had long tried to master it, but both time and Frost had shown her that its true power lay in its unpredictable, indiscriminate ravaging. Best to use it when you had the luxury of not looking back and no need to search through the wreckage. Its destructive power was complete, and it was perfect for this little project. They would erase all traces of these idols from the hilltop. Memories of it would linger, but even those would fade into nothing with the slow wear of time.

Zôr tossed the last bit of the crown into the fire and paused to stand behind Frost. She knew his silhouette intimately - every inch of it. Yet she had to admire the way the flames dancing about his figure shaped and reshaped that form, lending a curve here or appearing as long, trailing tresses there. The fire was a sculptor and Frost the clay, and she was ready to watch it work and rework his figure until the flames burned low and the sun rose upon their violation of this holy place. But then he turned, and their eyes met through the smoke and ash. For the smallest of moments, Zôrzimril saw the puzzled interest she felt reflected in Frost’s features.

And then he was standing beside her. His arm slid around her waist, and she smiled once more.

“Some may have stormed off in a jealous rage,” she said, turning to lean into him. “But the rest fled having seen their defeat in you.” She raised her left hand to his shoulder and traced his jawline with her right index finger before drawing his lips to hers. She tasted smoke and sage and him. When at last they broke apart, she concluded, “This darkness is yours as much as it is mine.” Heat rose in her and around her, and the midnight breeze swirled her hair across her face even as she grinned her admiration of this partner who had fed her every instinct for cruelty while matching all her appetites.

Her smile faltered at a sharp cry from below, at the foot of the little hill on which they stood: “Oi! What’s going on up there? Someone there?”

It was a man’s voice, booming with anger and fear. She heard a horse’s nervous whinny and, moments later, saw a figure moving up the slope toward them. She stepped in front of Frost, planting her feet apart and gazing down at the approaching man. Sweat glistened on his bald head as he neared the flames, and he wheezed with the effort of climbing a hill.

“Turn back,” she called when he made it halfway.

He looked up, sneered, and climbed on.

“Turn back,” she repeated. “This does not concern you.”

By this time, he was spitting distance from her. He laughed mirthlessly. “The shrine that’s stood on the edge of my family’s land since before anyone can remember, burning to the ground on a night without lightning? Doesn’t concern me? How do you reckon that? You done this?” He addressed the last question to Frost and made to sidestep Zôr to get to him. Fool, she thought. The man was unarmed and reckless with righteous rage. He had no idea the mess he was going to make. And yet . . . something about that gesture conveyed a dismissal of her, and she found herself angrier than expected at the slight. Perhaps it was an effect of the heat.

Whatever the reason, she slid into his path and unsheathed her dagger in one motion. With a snarl, she brought the knife to his throat. “We did this,” she hissed into his ear.

[Raisins]

Bar-en-Raveara

A call came up from the tower that someone was approaching from the north and Mylien and Ruindil smiled at each other there was only one person that would come to this keep from the woods. They scrambled out of the massive bed dressing hastily wanting to tease the normally punctual Fuin about being late.

They scrambled down the tower racing and pushing each other as they tried to get down to the court yard first their laughter filling the keep as others rushed to make sure that there was a meal ready for the Lady of the Manor, Ruindil for his part leapt down the final half flight of stairs and rolled crashing into one of the kitchen crew that was bringing a pitcher of water crashing with a yelp and a hearty laugh.

"Using staff as a landing cushion is cheating!" Mylien shouted as she leapt the final five steps and over Ruindil who reached up and grabbed her tripping her up and crawled up her body and planted a kiss on the back of her neck as she elbowed him hard.

"Pirates never play fair you know that love." He said with a chuckle only to have Mylien reach back and grab his beard and pulled hard rolling them over so that Ruindil was under her.

"Indeed we don't" With that she give him a kick bringing a whimpering moan from him as she slipped onto her feet and he curled into a ball as she kept running outside with a trilling laugh.

"Bloody hell, I'm dating a hell cat pirate woman, and a hell cat warrior. I'm doomed." Ruindil groaned to himself as he pushed himself back up onto his knees and then his feet. The server had recovered the pitcher and hit him on the back of the head with it. "Good gods, I can't get any respect here from anyone!" He put his hand to the back of his head.

"You deserve the respect you get." The server said and headed off to get more water.

"Yeah yeah." Ruindil stood slowly he'd lost the race he should have known Mylien would play dirty after he tripped her. He started tucking his shirt into his leather pants realizing he hadn't bothered with boots as they had taken off. Fuin would find that funny, he came out into the main court to see Fuin standing facing her horse, Mylien behind her trying to talk to her and Ruindil ran not caring about the stones under his feet to find out what was wrong with his elven wife. He wrapped an arm around both Mylien and Fuin holding her tight they hadn't seen anything like this from her since she had first told them about Afarfin and when she'd lost him.

"Love come on lets go in lets talk." He said softly letting Mylien escape before he scooped up Fuin.

"I don't know... everything has gone wrong, this wasn't suppose to happen." She said softly and Ruindil kissed the top of her head.

"Nah me sweet wife it's not yer 'ere we can figure sometin out." He said softly and was very much glad that he was bigger than her as she tried to push away from him. The laughter and smiles that had echoed through the tower were forgotten for now as Mylien walked close to his left looking at their wife. As a stable boy tried, and was bitten for his attempt to lead Lune to a stable.

[Baphởmet]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Tara)

It had been amazing, watching this living conflagration, birthing a thing of pure annihilation into the world. However, the peace and serenity that came with such an accomplishment was soon shattered by the intrusion of an unwanted soul. There were so many of those in this world, people that didn’t know when to shut up and cower in their homes while the Shadow passed over them. Frost sneered and flexed his hands, making and unmaking fists. No blood on the lintel was going to save this fool from his fate. He refused Zôr’s commands to turn back, either his ears were stuffed with cotton or his wits were seeping out his backside. The Númenórean, though, paid him no mind. He was naught but a fly, a pestering insect seeking some shire to feast on. He was not going to engage with a man so bereft of sense and sensibility. Yet the more the man climbed the rise to meet them, the less he was able to enjoy the flames of destruction. Their beauty had been dimmed, the flame’s heat had been stolen, their destructive prowess curtailed by this petulant child, this too stupid for his own good backcountry swine. The man’s voice was grating and unnatural. How dare he speak at such a holy moment.

It was only after he arrived, continuously ignoring Zôr, that Frost realized the inbred farmer was speaking to him and ignoring his partner altogether, Foolish imbecile. Every muscle in his body wanted to turn and rip the man apart limb from limb and leave him bleeding out, cold and alone, away from his inbred family, from his hinterland dilapidated cottage, from his diseased and pathetic animals. And yet, as he slowly turned to face the man, his expression one of detached boredom rather than blind, seething rage. Zôr was faster than him, sliding in between them with a dagger that shimmered orange in the light of the fire. If he looked at that blade too long, he was sure he’d be hypnotized. “She’s right, you know,” he said with the same bored detachment in his voice, “we did this. What makes you think it was me?”

He took two steps and with his long gait he was within the man’s defenses, angling behind him so that he could whisper into the man’s ear, already distracted by Zôr and her hypnotic blade. With his right hand, he grabbed the man’s right before he could strike out with it (calculating that the man was indeed right-handed) and pinned it against the side of his body. With his left, he gently, almost lovingly caressed the man’s filthy, unwashed face, grown thick with wiry stubble. When he spoke, his voice was oddly tender and mild, an octave higher than normal. “You sweet fool. You could have ignored this. You could have listened to my lover’s command. She told you this was none of your concern. Why should you make it? Do you want to die? Is the world you live in so cruel and cold that you would seek death at our hands? Are you truly so cruel to yourself that you want your death to last a fortnight? You would have better luck seeking death at the bottom of a bottle or the edge of a cliff.” His hand went from a caress to a strangle on the man’s neck, his voice never losing the sweet, lyrical quality. “You made a mistake thinking I was the one to speak to. You see, my wrath is quick and terrible, but hers, hers is insidious. You tried to swing at the wolf while missing the viper coiled around your foot.”

He dug his nails into the man’s throat. He gurgled and chocked, trying to speak through the compression on his throat. “You… blaspheming…”

“Yes,” Frost whispered, drawing out the sibilant sound.

“I… I’ll…”

“No,” Frost said, a hint of melancholy, “No, you won’t.”

He released the man’s throat, licking the blood delicately off his fingernails. “My love, I think he has an apology to make to you. Or a request for expediency. Either way, I don’t think you should accept.” He moved around so that he was standing behind Zôr, placing a hand on her hip, ready to steady her when she struck the blow.

[Moriel]

Into the Unknown
(Private with Frost)

Kamion shook his head at Walpurga’s repetition of the word lord to refer to him- though it seemed this time she might be teasing a bit? It was difficult to tell, still, at times- despite all they had already been through together, they had really know each other a very short time. He said nothing this time; she knew he was no lord whether her tongue wanted to admit it or not and merely urged Faran forward into his thunderous, ground-eating canter. Svanhildr kept up a good pace (though Kamion was quite sure Faran was holding back to allow it), and they slowed together at the approach to the bridge. Walpurga spoke of the bridge, and as she did so, its sense of foreboding stole over Kamion. He had felt the sensation many times before and was well used to it, but on his shoulder Brocktree seemed to retreat, curling tight against the Dúnadan’s neck. Kamion reached up to stroke him as he considered Walpurga’s questions. “I don’t know about elven magic,” he replied, “And I’ve only ever felt the chill of the bridge. Can you feel it now? It’s like a hand on your shoulder that you weren’t expecting, or like someone’s eyes on your from the shadows. There’s something odd about it, that’s sure. And yes, my father did see it before it fell in the great floods… he was young then, but lucky to see it still standing tall.”

They halted upon the bank of the river. There, rather than a bridge standing proudly above the water on its pillars, was a mangled sort of causeway, stretching across the slow, inexorable width of the river. From mound to mound across the river the ruined bridge teetered, offering a perilous short cut. Kamion turned in his saddle to look Walpurga in the eyes. “This is our moment of choice,” he said, nodding his chin at the bridge, “Now that you’ve seen it, do you wish to cross here?” He had been sure what her answer would be, but still felt a rippled of finality when Walpurga gave her answer in the affirmative. “Right,” Kamion continued, taking a slightly tighter wrap on his reins, “You will follow behind me. Let Svanhildr take charge: she knows her feet and can follow Faran as well. I’m used to making this crossing alone, so I’m going to tell you what my father told me the first time we made it together.” He had returned his gaze to the river to study it, but now twisted again to face Walpurga, as much as he could beside her in the saddle. “If anything happens to me, you must keep going. This is not a crossing you can turn back from in the middle with any likelihood of success. The only way out is forward. Understood?”

Again she agreed, and with a nod, Kamion nudged Faran forward. The gelding’s heavy ears were pricked forward, and he seemed to stretch out that direction too, though his pace remained slow and deliberately. Ugly and heavy-boned he might be, but Faran had made this crossing before, and was both sensible and surefooted when it really mattered. Kamion allowed his seat to be firm and supple, listening rather than guiding, and his hands on the reins light and attentive. The Dúnadan’s eyes flicked back and forth as Faran’s hooves made their first contact with the ruined bridge, keeping a sharp lookout for any unanticipated hazards, or shifts in the timbers. He listened, too, for the fall of Svanhildr’s hooves, and any sound from Walpurga. The skunks were uncharacteristically silent, and Brocktree had retreated into the saddlebag he occupied when not perched aloft on Kamion’s shoulder. Not for the first time, he was struck by how much more sensible animals could be than humans.

They moved forward with slow deliberation across the ford of ruins. At times the water rose above Faran’s ankles, flowing slow and inexorable over stretches of the bridge. Once or twice Kamion glanced back- Svanhildr would be deeper in the water, but the pony seemed to be tolerating the crossing well. Just past halfway, the soft creaking of the ruins became a groan that threatened to erupt into screeching and Faran halted suddenly, his head jerking up. Kamion raised one hand, then brought it down gently on the gelding’s thick neck. The whole group waited, stock still, as the groan increased in volume, then faded as quickly as it had come. He patted Faran firmly, then looked over his shoulder. Offering Walpurga a smile of reassurance, Kamion led the way forward again. The rest of the crossing proceeded in a similarly tense manner, but without further incident- and it was with relief that he felt firm ground beneath Faran’s hooves again when they gained the opposite bank. It seemed Faran felt the same way, for he burst into a rapid trot to put some space between them and the bridge, and Kamion laughed, wrestling him back into a walk.

“Well,” he said, when Walpurga has caught up with them, “There’s a tale you’ll be able to tell. Well done.” There was a genuine pride in his voice as he said it. “It never gets easier, that crossing, but the first time is the hardest. From here we turn northeast for the edge of Arthedain-that-was, where we will meet my people.” A different sort of pride tinged the final two words; though Kamion considered himself a true son of the White City and his soul sang in Minas Tirith, the north was in his bones, and its Dúnedain were his family. He had grown up on the stories of their history, and the connection of his father- of both his parents- that stretched back to Númenor and beyond. “I was born in Rhudaur,” he offered, “have you heard much of the kingdoms that followed Arnor in the North?” Prompted by Walpurga’s bright questioning, Kamion began to tell her of the three kingdoms that had once stretched over a vast amount of Eriador, and of the Dúnedain. They rode for a long time in companionable ease, Kamion periodically pausing his narrative to answer a query from the young woman at his side.

It was when dusk had begun to descend that Kamion called a halt for the night. They set about making camp, and had a blazing fire in no time. The horses groomed and fed and their own bedrolls laid out, Kamion set about spitting a rabbit Walpurga had caught for their supper. It was just beginning to brown and drip when he saw the movement: a shadowy smudge on the road, just beyond the border of the trees they were camped beside. Kamion watched the smudge from his position lounging against his pack, and saw it ripple slightly. His eyes narrowed slightly as he counted. “Walpurga,” he murmured, still watching, “don’t panic. We’re about to have some company.” The Dúnadan’s eyes flicked across the fire to the girl, who had been busy digging potatoes into the ashes. “Go and fetch your sword. Don’t run.” She had come to him with some training in the blade, but Kamion had only had the chance to give her one lesson of his own in their journey so far, and that had been much more of an introduction than actual teaching. But it seemed the time might have come for her to put to use what all she knew. Kamion stretched in an exaggerated manner and climbed to his feet with much stamping and brushing off of clothes.

“Well now,” he said, much louder than necessary, as he bent down to lift his own scabbard from beneath his bedroll, “What would you say to another little lesson in swordplay before we retire?” He grasped the hilt of his enormous longsword and drew it from the scabbard in one fluid motion, even as he turned his back to the fire, to face the five figures which had emerged from the darkness of the road, and were now making for the campsite with a determined pace. “Hello, friends,” Kamion said mildly, holding the sword easily in one hand, point slightly forward, as he cast the scabbard aside. “Can I help you with something?”

[Moriel]

Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors
(Private with Frost and Tara)

This was not how Hrafnhildr had expected her day to go. Though she was not afraid of Arioch by virtue of his being, one vampire was bad enough, much less two. And Keziah was a thing more primal than her lover; where, as the stories told, Arioch had been turned by Thuringwethil, Keziah had been born as she was, a silent thunderbolt of vicious bloodlust. If Hrafnhildr were to choose one of the pair to fear, it would have been her. But she remained as she had before Frost’s return and Keziah’s appearance, standing stock-still with her arms folded across her chest, the rain dripping from her hood, her eyes taking in the scene. The pulsation of energy that seemed to have accompanied the vampire woman’s arrival faded as Arioch began to speak. His words reflected the poetry of his ancestors, and their savagery. It seemed that she and Frost were to be guests at a wedding, but not the sort celebrated with song, dance, and feasting. At least, not that they were to be privy to.

Keziah drank Arioch in as he declaimed, explaining to the two mortals what they were about to become part of. He was magnificent, and her patience had not been wasted. Centuries of hedonistic exuberance spent in chasing his image, as he had chased hers, devouring each other and so many sould besides in waiting for this moment to arrive. Seldom did their kind wed, and when they did, the skies above and the earth below in all their layers would shake with the passion of their union. But first, the customs must be observed. Keziah’s crimson-and-pale eyes narrowed with the delight of her pointed smile as Arioch told Frost of his role in the proceedings, and she turned to meet the gaze of the Lossoth woman. Hrafnhildr, who stood as a statue nearby.

“And you, Hrafnhildr, Ylva, the protector of the Snowmen, you too shall play your part.” Keziah paced across the stones towards her. The woman was not small, but the vampiress towered over her nonetheless. “You shall be my Protector. Should the Challenger seek to subvert his task and come for me straight, you will subdue him. Should the Challenger prevail against Arioch and come to claim his prize… you will subdue him. If you fail in either of these tasks, I will drink you both. I do not intend,” her rustling-pearl voice hardened as she tore her gaze from Hrafnhildr’s and settled them upon Frost “to be claimed by any but my intended. But you must fight true.”

She heard Arioch’s call, and materialized at his side in a rush that might have been of legs or wings, but was too sudden to tell. From the air she snatched the rings, even as Belisaria let them fly, intending them for his master. Keziah smiled at Arioch’s pied familiar as she settled onto his shoulder. “And well you have done it, Belisaria.” With her free hand. Keziah reached out to caress Arioch’s face. “Battle well, my love,” she crooned, “And let us be wed ere long, when you come to claim these rings in victory. Let his be done swiftly!” Keziah surged forward, locking her lips to Arioch’s and her wings about him in a vampire’s embrace. As suddenly as she had come to his side, she ripped herself away and, with a great beating of those same burgundy-black wings, seized Hrafnhildr by the shoudlers and bore her back up to the battlements overlooking the courtyard.

“Now it begins,” Keziah whispered, tightening her pointed fingertip about the woman’s shoulders, “Now we shall see whose blood is stronger. Mine… or yours.”

[Raisins]

Bar-en-Raveara

Ruindil and Mylien worked hard to find out what Fuin was meaning when she said everything has gone wrong once they'd gotten her to her room and gotten her onto her bed.

She'd pulled away from them and and they kept on her knowing that she needed to talk but she wasn't ready not yet. They got food brought and worked hard to get her to eat and drink hoping that food would help her calm down a little bit.

"Come luv what is botering you?" Ruindil asked both he and Mylien were curled up on the bed with Fuin curled up nibbling on a bit of food that was on the table beside her as she sat on a plush couch. They didn't want to force her to do anything, that was very much against their code.

"Afarfin." Fuin managed to choke out finally and the two pirates were taken aback.

"You're old flame love?" Mylien asked sitting up frowning, "I thought he was in Valinor."

Fuin drew a shaky breath "I did too. He has been reborn." She couldn't look at them "In Lothlorien."

The silence in the room stretched on as Mylien and Ruindil looked at each other. For the last two years Afarfin had always been a touchy subject and it didn't normally come up except once a year. Mostly in that they would make sure Fuin was there with them so that they could hold her and wake her from her nightmares that came around the anniversary of Afarfins death. Ruindil the normally brash and loud Captain stood slowly and walked over to Fuin, the only woman he didn't absolutely tower over and knelt down in front of her asking for her hand which she gave eventually and he took it and kissed it.

"You know we love you. If you want to go back to him you can, but as far as I am concerned he's as welcome in this relationship as you are." This brought Fuins eyes back to him as she'd been avoiding looking at him. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as if that option had never crossed her mind, and in truth it hadn't.

"You - "

"Elves have soul mates, if 'e's a part of ye I have no doubt that I will love'him as much." Ruindil said softly and Fuin wiped tears from her eyes and looked away and then back at him and Mylien who had stood up and was standing a hand on Ruindils shoulder smiling at Fuin.

"And if he doesn't want us, and you want to let go." Mylien said softly. "We'll be alright though we'd still like to use the port." Fuin gawfed at that and reached out and pulled Mylien to herself hugging her tightly pressing her face into the Gondorian womans stomach.

"Thank you." She said softly pulling Ruindil in as well.

The two pirates hugged her tightly and now that she was back to wanting to be touched began running their fingers through her hair and kissing her.
Ruindil after a moment stood up picking Fuin up and over his shoulder bringing Mylien along holding her hand and tossed Fuin and then Mylien onto the bed.

"NOW me loves." He said with a smile crawling onto the bed "I'm going to hold you tightly and ask you when you think you'll be dragging Afafin here so that I can pin him on the bed and tell him how lucky he is to have you as a soulmate?"

"He's an elf." Mylien said with a giggle at Fuin blushing at Ruindils comment. "What if he pins you?"

This perked up Ruindils and a grin split his face "There's always a first for everything."

"OH VALAR." Fuin groaned "HE's got at least two inches on you Ruindil."

"OHhhh a big boy, so you've got a type," Ruindil chirped far too happily. Mylien elbowed him in the kidney for Fuin.

[Baphởmet]

In the Unknown
Tharbad
(Private with Moriel)

Nerves on edge, Walpurga urged Svanhildr along. Crossing the bridge showed her something very important: one can only pay so much attention to a single thing before focus on anything becomes a swirling massive visuals and colors and air. Kamion’s description of “a hand on your shoulder that you weren’t expecting” made her feel uneasy and agitated in equal measures. She didn’t like being touched and the thought of some unknown someone or something placing a hand on her shoulder made her want to strike at something. Still, she would not let that daunt her mood. Nerves mixed with excitement to create a strange feeling in her gut. She both wanted it to last forever and already by over. Adrenaline filled her body; she could feel things and sense things she normally would have ignored. The breeze was cool and wispy, playful almost. It blew down from north and carried the scent of pine with it. The smell made her fingers tingle.

Then they finally made it to the bridge, if bridge it could be called. It was more like island hopping along stones that looked one speck of dirt away from crumbling and getting carried away in the flood. Stories about ruined bridges were one thing, seeing one, however, was a very different thing. She had imagined the bridge as a wide but decrepit connection between the world of the known and the world of the unknown. She imagined something with slightly more dignity. She was half afraid it might crumble under the weight of her gaze. The stories leave out things like this. Kamion’s instruction of “let Svanhildr take the lead” was sound, the pony was opinionated about the paths they took but she was not foolhardy and she’d made some sort of friendship with the large warhorse (was Faran a warhorse? He was big enough to be one) that reassured the young Rohir. However, Kamion’s instruction to “keep going even if something happens to me” made her feel a knot in her stomach. There was practical wisdom in it, but it came with sense of foreboding doom that she wasn’t keen on. Upon hearing that, the river seemed more feral and untamed and suddenly she was unsure if crossing here was wise. But he’d said he’d crossed this place many times and had come out the other end just fine. Her misgivings were giving a decent argument, but not good enough to stop her from trying. Living as safely as she could had led her through a life of grays, tasteless food, and friendless evenings. Living meant doing things. She nodded. She was ready to cross.

The moment of truth came. Svanhildr set a hoof on the bridge. When the entire world didn’t collapse around her, she let out a sigh that released the tension building between her shoulder blades. Svanhildr must have felt something similar. Her footfalls were steady and even, somewhat timid, but she gained confidence with each step. Walpurga’s eyes and ear were peeled for any sign of doom and disaster. The mists began to swirl about them, heightening her wariness, but at the same time she welcomed the cool respite. She could still see Kamion ahead and she could still hear the heavy clompclompclompclomp of Faran’s hooves. The entire scene took on a dreamlike quality. The world around them dropped away, leaving just this tiny island of being. Her skunk children and all gone quiet, watching the proceedings from within the pack on Svanhildr’s hindquarters. Occasionally, she heard a tiny squeak, but for the most part they were silent, fascinated (or terrified) by the crossing. She scratched her pony’s neck and whispered words of encouragement as they moved. The going was slow and inexorable but, despite the mounting anxiety, Walpurga wouldn’t have hurried for all the world. Moments that become memories should never be rushed. When they crossed parts of the ruined bridge that touched the river itself the tension rose in her once more. The footings were less sure and the way less clear. Yet Svanhildr was steady and consistent, her pace slowed here and there as she looked for better footing, but the pony never wavered, never tried to bolt forward or turn back.

The entire world was slowed like it had frozen over. There was such quiet here. Walpurga thought she’d known quiet in the dells and hollows around Benton, places where it was just she and her animal companions and the warm summer air. But this place was truly silent. Perhaps it was the monolithic grey shadows hovering almost out of view, the mists, or the ruined bridge itself, or perhaps it was something else altogether. There were no birds singing or wheeling about, no insects buzzing and chirping. The only true sound at all was the sound of their animals and the muted, subdued gurgle of the water. The water itself was cold. She never touched it, but she could feel the chill coming off it. She felt bad for Svanhildr, who suffered the cold without complaint. “You are doing wonderful darling. I promise you an extra helping of carrots and apples for you when we are done,” she whispered and kissed the pony’s head. She received a soft neigh as an affirmative. The groan of the ruins caused a squeak of dismay from her pack. The little babies had had quite enough of this adventure and were very ready for it to be over. They didn’t like this river or the crossing or the enshrouding mists. They wanted open fields full of smells and things to munch. They had to stand still however. Everyone did. The tension in the air nearly became too much. She had to fight the urge to turn back and run for safety. The moment passed. They began to move again, the tiny caravan.

Finally, they reached the end of the crossing. Walpurga let out a deep sigh of relief. Her muscles ached as she climbed off Svanhildr’s back. She hadn’t realized just how tense she had been. Looking back, she was amazing they all made it across without falling in and having to swim for shore. The skunk trio were very vocal about how much they didn’t like it and never wanted to do anything so scary ever again. She obliged them by letting them climb all over and nestle in places that were more than a little awkward. She owed them that much.

“As long as it exists in song, I think I am just fine leaving that behind me,” she breathed another sigh of relief and let out an unexpected chuckle. “Someone really needs to fix that bridge. And by someone, I do mean anyone but me.” She laughed genuinely then, letting the emotions flow through the laughter. “I can imagine it was mighty in its time though.”

For a time, she listened intently to his recounting of the kingdoms of Arnor. The names were familiar the same way a new shade of your favorite color was familiar, even if it’s different and unusual. The stories she’d heard in short form, brief descriptions and vague outlines of historical events. But the way Kamion spoke of them made her heart long to have seen them in the long days past when the towers were capped with clouds rather than gathering moss and ruin, when music ran in the streets rather than crumbled rubble and wild animals. There was such a sadness to those tales, to the history of his people. Some part of her wandered too if they were the stories of her people too. She still had no clue as to who her father was, but the more she separated herself from her old life, the less she cared. She was Walpurga, what did it matter who her father was? He was not going to shape her future or define her past. Only she had the right to do that. She had a hundred questions for Kamion, she tried to keep them to a minimum, not wanting to interrupt his narrative, but more than once or twice the urge spilled out of her like a burst waterskin. His patience with her was vast. She appreciated that. So often she’d been silenced by the fear of an angry response or an impatient snap. How freeing it was to let it go!

That night she caught a rabbit for their supper, whispering to the little creature that it would be okay, that it would run in the meadows of heaven soon enough. She’d begun to relax; the intense weariness of a long day’s travel began to settle over her. But something in the air made her not want to fall asleep, to not calm just yet. Kamion must have felt it too, or perhaps he saw something in the surrounding area that she’d missed. His eyes were far more attuned to this land than hers. Then he said they’d be getting company soon. Her blood ran cold. The way he’d be staring out into the horizon, the tenseness of his mood, the utter calm in his voice, it had a way of making sure she didn’t jump and scream in a panic. There was a tenseness to her movements, but they were fluid, sure, steady. Lessons with the swords had been few (only one thus far with a promise of more to come) but it had been valuable. Her time in Rohan’s cavalry had taught her exactly not much. Whatever she’d learned she’d taught herself. His singular lesson had just been the basics, but she felt more confident holding a sword now, her stance was vastly improved, and her balance had been corrected. She was not ready, per se, to go off and fight a horde of marauders in the middle of the night by herself, but at least she could stand her ground if necessary. Walpurga retrieved the swords, a practiced nonchalant smile on her face. Kamion drew his blade in a motion that reminded her of waterfall.

Then the figures materialized out of the glom. Five of them. Svanhildr neighed uncomfortably.

“Help us?” a man stepped forward, a little taller than the rest, a little better dressed. “Aye, I think you might just be able to do that.” He stood just outside the ring of firelight, but she could see his grinning yellow teeth from here. Her skin crawled. “Tha’s a nice sword ye got there, friend. Very bright ‘n’ shiny. Pity if you’d have t’use it, eh?” He began to walk around the edge of the light. The four men behind began to fan out, still behind him as he talked. “No need to fret, friend. Really. We just be a few travelers, like you and your girl ‘ere. Wanderers in a forsaken land. You wouldn’t begrudge us a little warmth by a fire, would you? Tha sort of thing would be most unkind, an’ you don’ seem like the kind that would be, eh, unkind,” his hollow laughter sounded like a broken bell. “Tha rabbit looks really nice from where I’m standin’. T’would be a blessin’ should ye invite us over. We are sore and tired, we are. So many miles, so many miles have we traveled.”

He moved into the light. Simultaneously, the rest of the men moved. Walpurga had been paying attention though and pivoted to face down two that had been circling around. Her sword was out in a flash of red and orange light. It was not as fluid as Kamion’s but it was effective enough.

The brigand, that’s what he was after all, laughed. The sound was creepy and unnatural. It was hollow like there was nothing in his belly. “Check your child, good sir. I don’t think the little girl understan’s the complexities of the situation we find ourselves in.” A dirk appeared in his hand, Walpurga caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye. “Now this,” he said contemplatively, “can be resolved easily ‘nough. My name’s… well my name’s not all that important. It coulda been should you have been nicer. So many unkind people on this stretch of road.” He spat at Kamion’s foot, a thick glob of reddish brown. “You can give us the rabbit, and the horse. Keep the pony though. Girl’s gonna need something ta carry your corpse after we’re had our fun with her.”

Walpurga felt cold rage. She wanted to spring into action. These bastards were little more than wolves in human skin. And she had a special way of dealing with wolves. But Kamion was here. Her instincts told her to trust him, to listen to him. If he gave the order to attack, she would. But not until then.

However, that sort of discipline did not extend to her skunk children. Ecthelion peaked out from the underbrush and, seeing the strangers darted into the middle, tail raised and ready spray. The visceral reaction to a skunk in their midst was enough to break the bubble of threats and posturing. One many, a greasy haired man with a mangy beard and rheumy eyes yelped and tried to bring a club down on her child.

That was a bad move.

She moved faster than she thought possible. Her blade whooshing beside her. “WALPURGAAAAAAAA!!”

She had never given any thought before about what kind of battle cry she would have, if she ever had one. Her name was the only thing that she was able shout clearly. So that was that, she was going to be the kind to shout her own name running in to a fight. Good to know.

[Moriel]

Into the Unknown
(Private with Frost)

The response was much as Kamion had expected. He had traveled this road often enough and encountered his share of bandits and brigands over the years- but this encounter was made more sinister by the presence of Walpurga, and the men’s reaction to her. He could see their eyes flickering about as they took in the shadowy details of the camp, returning repeatedly to his companion, and they were neither intelligent nor crafty enough to hide their looks of eager anticipation. The spokesman of the group made matters quite clear when he ceased his act of travelers seeking food and shelter and spoke of the fun he and his gang would be having with Walpurga. Kamion’s grip on his sword tightened, raising the point until the blade came to rest on his shoulder in a high guard. Were he alone, he might have talked his way out of this situation, or merely given the men a drubbing and driven them off. With their intentions so clearly stated, however, they had relinquished all rights to leniency. Though with the fire behind him the men could not have clearly seen it, Kamion’s face was hard and his gaze flinty, and menace underscored his tone as he spoke.

“Let’s you and I have some fun first, shall we?”

It was at that moment, however, that Ecthelion chose to make his move. The skunk leaped from his hiding place and into their midst, his tail raised and threatening. Kamion was less surprised than the bandits only because he knew the skunks had been there, but even he had not expected this development. Then the man with the raggedy beard raised his club. Walpurga had been lingering behind him, sword at the ready, but as the club whipped down towards Ecthelion, she rushed forward with a roar and the hiss of steel through air, and there was not a thing Kamion could do to stop her: as she moved, so did the rest.

“Faran!” Kamion barked, sweeping his arm through the air to point at the two bandits furthest two his left, having spread out behind their leader. The gelding’s answer scream came from beyond the ring of firelight where he had stood with Svanhildr, and he charged with a thunder of hooves, his thick chest colliding with first one man and then the next as he trampled them into the ground. Kamion had no time to see this, as a third man dashed at him, a short sword in his hand. With a movement near as casual as shrugging off a jacket, the Dúnadan stepped forward and released the sword from his shoulder, his second hand taking its place behind the first on the hilt as the long blade came down, levering it to increase the power as he sank into his stance. The bandit stood no chance against the reach sword or the skill of its wielder, and it split him from the joint of neck and shoulder on one side nearly through to his armpit on the other. He crumpled in silence as Kamion continued his stride, withdrawing the sword as he moved.

The first man to have been struck by Faran lay unmoving upon the ground, but the second had staggered back to his feet, bloody-faced and raging, antagonizing the horse with a knife. Faran’s brays of rage reflected Kamion’s own mood as, teeth bared and jaws agape, the gelding whirled and lashed out with both rear hooves. They thudded home on the man’s chest and sent him flying backwards, tumbling over and over on the ground to arrive nearly at Kamion’s feet, where the Dúnadan dispatched the man with a thrust to the throad. The leader of the group, the would-be dandy with the dirk, had hung back in the explosion of the initial assault, and rather than approach Kamion now as he pulled his sword from the corpse’s of Faran’s second victim, flashed an evil grin and turned away. Kamion was a soldier; a calm and reasonable man, not given to fits of rage, preferring to leave that to Faran- but when he saw the brigand raise his dirk, its blade reflecting the firelight as he raised it above Walpurga’s back, behind her as she battled against the man who had threatened Ecthelion, he was engulfed by untenable fury.

“Walpurga!” he bellowed, echoing the young woman’s own battle cry, and bounded across the space between them. Two blades flashed at once as Kamion swung his sword high, and even as the dirk began to descend towards Walpurga’s unprotected head, he brought it down with all his strength. The longsword struck the man in a great earthward arc across his back, biting deep into one side at the armpit, severing his spine, and ripping out the opposite diagonal at the kidney. A spray of blood struck Kamion across the face and chest as the man tipped forward; the dirk thudded into the ground from his nerveless fingers, followed by his knees, and then his face.

[Baphởmet]

Into the Unknown
Tharbad
(Private with Moriel)

Everything happened at once, Walpurga felt like she was moving through molasses. She watched the man raise his club, aiming for Ecthelion. That action had set the world aflame. Walpurga’s vision went red. Despite everything she’d learned from Kamion and on her own, instincts took over her. Much like a mother bear when her cubs are threatened, the Rohir barreled into the man with the full force of her weight. She was not some slight, elfin girl with waifish hips, she was six feet of angry muscle. She slammed into the man so hard she felt her bone pop. The air went out of him, he gasped as he felt the impact. They fell for what seemed an eternity. The rest of the world erupted in a chaos of horses and men and steel. She dropped the sword, the force of the impact stretching her fingers just enough for the leather to slip from her grasp. It happened so slowly that she was able to chide herself somewhere in the back of her head. For now, though, she knew she wasn’t going to need a sword to take him on. She’d taken him by surprise and knocked the wind out of him.

When they finally made contact with the ground, he rolled and tried to maneuver on top of her. Briefly, panic flooded her limbs. If he managed to get on top of her, there was no telling what he might do. She snarled and used his momentum to continue the roll so that she landed on top. She heard a tiny squeak from in front of her, Ecthelion was still out, with his tail raised defiantly. He was still too young for the threat to have been carried out, but none of the brigands knew that. She slammed a fist into the club wielder’s face. The wet, crushing sound it made was very satisfying. She hit him again. And again. And again. She squeezed her legs together, pinning his arms to his side. She continued the beating, spattered his blood across her face. His face was a ruin, but he did not give up. He bucked his hips and the moment it too for her to regain her balance, he had wriggled a hand out from her grip. That hand formed a fist and connected with her chin. It hurt. Walpurga could feel the muscles, tendon, and bone all take the force of the impact. She’d never been punched so hard. Sure, back in Benton she’d gotten in scrapes with bullies who decided to pick on stray animals, but she’d been able to scare them off. This one wasn’t going the scared off with a few punches. She bit her tongue as the fist connected. That only made things worse. Pain shivered down her spine like a lightning bolt. She lost her grip on him and he scrambled out from under her. She blinked away the black stars that appeared in her vision. She was wobbly, it was hard to get her bearings.

But she did. She did before he was able to grab his club. She had been laid out on her back, but her sword was in reach. She grabbed the leather handle with the tips of her fingers and pulled it in just in time to deflect a blow from the club. It had been a clumsy but hard blow. She only just managed to keep it from smashing into her temple. Thankfully, she was able to push the weapon aside, using a trick of the wrist Kamion had taught her. The club wobbled in the air. She was able to stand and, once she did, retained a better grip and stance. Her breath was ragged, and her mouth tasted like copper, the left side of her face felt huge and numb. He looked worse. She struck out at him, stabbing with quick jabs to keep him off balance. This wasn’t really the size and shape of sword for quick jabs, but it was doing the trick for now. With each jab she moved a little closer to him. He would back away, but she would move again, refusing to let him have footing. She swiped at his feet then ducked as his club soared through the air. She tilted her balance from her left to right foot then came up with a massive uppercut aimed at his jaw. It connected. He staggered back. She pressed the advantage and swung at his arm. She nearly cut it off with a single strike at the elbow. His shriek was loud and satisfying.

“That’s for trying to hurt my child!” her voice was venomous and scratchy. She spun and the blade sliced across his chest. He wasn’t wearing armor. Pity him. Red bloomed over his chest. He yelped.

She looked at him. Really looked at him. He was a vile looking man, the more she looked at him, the more she saw the wolf behind his eyes. She tilted her head. She had a special way of dealing with wolves, be they natural or unnatural. She dropped the sword and sprang on him. He was too weak to resist, the blood loss from his arm and chest sapping his energy. She shoved both hands in his mouth and began to pull in opposite directions. He screamed, tried to bite. But the rage of a mother was still coursing through her veins. She pulled and pulled. His jaw was harder to pull apart than a wolf’s. He legs kicked wildly and his stump of an arm flailed, raining blood all over her. But she didn’t stop. She pulled and screamed and pulled some more.

Finally, she felt something snap. It was like the breaking of old oak branch. She felt it as much as she heard it. Then his body went limp. The lower jaw slumped and fell open. Her hands were greeted by a final spray of thick dark blood.

Once she stood up again, she realized the rest of the fight had been over quickly. She looked behind her, slightly bewildered, at the man with the dirk. She stared at him for a moment, not comprehending that he was already dead. She stomped his head.

Walpurga’s breath was ragged, her jaw hurt. It pulsed as if it had its own heartbeat. She looked at Kamion, her expression somewhere between exhaustion, anger, mirth, and horror.

“Well… that was… unexpected.”

[Marceline]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Frost)

With her back to the blaze, a bead of sweat ran along Zôr’s neck and down the back of her dress. The night air was cool, but the fire dominated the landscape now, beating back the breeze with heat and smoke and ash. She pressed her knife’s edge into the man’s flesh, and a shallow cut opened where the two made contact. She locked eyes with him, daring him to move. He was still struggling with those ragged, labored breaths. What kind of farmer, Zôr wondered, would grow winded merely from climbing a small hill? A poor excuse for one, that was certain. Weren’t they all out in the fields every day? Weren’t they all vigorous and sturdy from the constant toil? All the field laborers with whom she’d lain had been, anyway. In an instant, she connected his stubborn defense of this pointless place to his physical condition and she laughed.

“You must be the one who minds the gods in their absence,” she accused him, even as Frost made to walk behind the man. “Do you speak with their voices?” She leaned in close so he could not escape her questions. He reeked of sweat and fear and, amusingly, lust. His breath was poisonous and rotten. “Where are your sheep, sweet shepherd? How many have you saved from a descent into dark and dangerous ways? And who will tend to your flock when you’ve gone?”

Zôrzimril lifted her eyes to watch Frost. She smiled to hear him crooning threats in a deceptively saccharine voice. There was nothing simple about him, nothing plain: he layered illusion and glamor over malice and decay and ensnared his victims before they realized - too late - their mistakes. His fingers flexed and clamped upon the man’s neck like the iron jaws of a trap. The man sputtered and choked in her partner’s grip. Frost released the man and moved behind her. She took this arrangement as a cue to take control.

“Do you indeed want to die?” she echoed as the man struggled for air. His hands were free now, but she was unconcerned - he was too shocked to be a threat. “I think you do. You want to know what comes next. Have they promised you an afterlife across the lonely seas, free of suffering? Is that what you’ve promised your followers? How many so-called Men of Darkness did you and your ilk purge in the name of the idols who now burn before you?”

Slowly, she slid the blade from his fleshy neck, tracing the cut it had made like a lover’s caress. Perhaps the softness with which she withdrew tricked him into thinking he had been reprieved, for the man began to sob. His shoulders sagged with relief. He had burned through all his indignant rage in a mere matter of minutes. Sad, Zôr thought, considering the pathetic sight before her. A supposed man of principle caving under threat of death.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she repeated. “Confess.”

“I didn’t want any of this,” he choked. “I don’t want to die. I want--”

Zôr had heard enough. The apology Frost had suggested certainly was not coming. She tossed her dagger just high enough to change her grip, catching the hilt in a fist so that the blade protruded from the little finger side of her right hand. In a flash of scarlet and orange, she swiftly brought the dagger up before plunging it into his neck, just beneath his right ear. Her whole body swayed to lend force to the blow. The tip of the blade burst from the flesh beneath his left ear with a light spray of blood. The stuff looked black and oily in the eerie firelight as it fell to the earth. As she had known he would be, Frost was there to brace her. He always knew where to put his hands.

As quickly as she’d stabbed him, Zôr pulled the knife from the dying man’s throat. His life’s blood flowed from dual wounds now. He raised his hands desperately to stanch the bleeding. It was almost comical how his hands moved aimlessly from one wound to the other and back. His wits may as well have seeped out of him, too.

She prowled around to stand behind him and kicked the back of his legs. The man collapsed to his knees before his burning gods. His hands continued to wander over his own neck. For him, the world began to dim. The firelight faded, and with it the smoke and the silhouette of the man who’d squeezed his throat. But the woman wandered back into his field of vision and stooped to gaze into his glassy eyes.

“You have blood on your hands,” she whispered.

[Marceline]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, the Prancing Pony
(Private with Frost)

Jake snorted with laughter to see Finn’s reaction to the ale. Tiny as the sip had been, Finn was acting like he’d swallowed a mugful of the Barliman’s strongest spirits in one go. The woozy expression upon Finn’s face was especially amusing, as was the fact that he tried to compensate by covering up the taste with stew.

“C’mon, Finn! You gotta toughen up if you’re gonna drink Barliman’s brews!” Jake said, giving Finn a playful but encouraging slap on the back. “The ales here are legendary! We gotta build up your tolerance.” He grew momentarily more serious. “Or at least, we should when you’re old enough, young man.” Jake waited a beat to see how Finn would react, then burst out laughing. The whole thing was a silly little episode to him - not nearly as serious as the upcoming adventure to the north would be.

“Ice King’s a lonely weirdo!” Jake shouted, nodding his agreement with Marceline. “He better not have hurt Wildberry Princess . . . or even LSP.” Jake was never sure how he felt about LSP. Selfish and grouchy, she was the picture of a spoiled princess. And yet there was something irresistibly (if weirdly) charming about her. The princesses of Middle-Earth sure ran the gamut of personality types. And Jake hadn’t even met them all!

“Yeah, let’s hope he hasn’t married either of them against their will or anything,” Marceline said drily. “Though I bet LSP would beat him up if he tried!” She laughed and floated over to the window to peer outside. “Hey, it stopped raining! You guys want to go get some supplies?”

Jake shape-shifted so that he looked like a large knapsack. “Do I!” he shouted. “But no matter how excited I get, Finn’s always a level above me. You know Finn’s a shopaholic, right Marceline?”

Before the vampire queen could reply, the door opened and a hobbit staffer came in to take their empty plates and mugs. A light breeze blew in through the open door, and something - a faint, familiar smell - wafted into Jake’s dog nostrils. He sniffed rapidly three times, then took a huge breath. That smell . . . What was it? He looked at Finn and Marceline. Finn sometimes smelled a little funky, but this was different. And Marceline didn’t have any smell on her at all, being undead and all. It wasn’t the hobbit - that guy smelled like hay and shoe polish and the kitchen’s freshest food. So where was that strange smell coming from? And where had he smelled it before?

Jake followed his nose, stretching himself around the room in every which way until he was a tangle of yellow dog. “Hmmm,” he grumbled as he went. At last, he stretched his way up to the ceiling, where the scent was strongest. “Rowr rowr rowr!” he yelled in his best doggy bark. Nothing and no one emerged from the rafters. Jake lingered for a moment, shrugged, and undid his maze of stretchiness so they could head out for their shopping excursion.

Bree Town, The Choose Goose

The door to the shop burst open with a bang! Chyewsgûs, the proprietor and main salesperson at the Choose Goose (Bree’s One-Stop Shop for Assorted and Illicit Goods), jumped nearly out of his skin. By the standards of Bree he was an odd fellow: permanently cross-eyed with a honking baritone voice, he somehow came by anything and everything one could possibly want for exactly the situation one found oneself in.

“Hey, Chyewsgûs!” Jake shouted. He gave the shopkeeper a little wave as he meandered inside with Finn and Marcy. “What’s going on? Got any illegal moisturizer? Or how about some supplies for a journey into the freezing north?”

[Baphởmet]

Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors
(Private with Tara and Moriel))

He was supposed to do what? Frost had never heard of something so ridiculous in all his life. Vampire customs? He would have scoffed save that he knew such a show of disrespect would get him killed (and likely Hrafnhildr would sit back and polish a knife while it happened). His shoulders tightened, he could feel the bones around under his skin, moving and shifting about like a wild animal. This entire venture was folly, a mad folly. Yet, there was nothing he could do about any of it. His ocean blue eyes darkened as he looked at each of those gathered, all watching him as if he were about to give some rousing speech. They were all waiting on something, each expectation different. He didn’t give a damn about any of them. He wanted to abandon this farcical comedy as soon as possible. A vampire wedding? Had there ever been a more ludicrous idea in all the history of Middle-earth? Yet to look at the deadly serious faces arrayed in front of him one might be mistaken and think it was the most serious of arcane and occult rituals. Again, he wanted to scoff. And he was supposed to be involved? If they wanted a clown, they should have brought better makeup, he thought. He was supposed to fight Arioch for the hand of… Keziah, was it? Why on earth would he do that? He wanted nothing to do with either of them. Assessing them, Arioch was clearly the more dangerous. He’d seen the vampire in action, how easily he had ripped flesh from bone even while menaced by a score of people. He knew the rumors too. If half of them were true, that he’d alongside Zigûr in the closing days of the Second Age, that he’d been a student of the Warrior Vala in the long days. What sort of chance did the Númenórean have against someone, something, like that? Frost was a capable killer, he’d proven that time and time again, but he was not a foolhardy, battle-lusting idiot. He knew his limit. Yet, it seemed that that did not matter here. He snarled and showed a toothy, angry smile. “You want a fight? Fine. I’ll give you a fight.”

It occurred to Frost that the massacre at the village had been a test. How would he react? How would he handle himself? Would he kill everyone around him? How skillfully would he do it? It rankled Frost to be have been used like that. He was not a puppet. The long, dark blade was in his hand. He could feel the iron spike against his hip, and the dagger calling out to him to be used, but he ignored them both. He had no hope of winning this fight, but at least he could get out some aggression. Maybe he could get in a few good licks while he was at it.

The vampire’s blade appeared like a bolt of lightning, long and white, horribly pristine compared to the rest of the creature’s archaic, showy garb. They circled one another. Frost staying a half step ahead of his opponent. There was no good footing, at least there was no footing that would give him an advantage, especially not with something that had no need to fight on the ground if need be. Arioch charged, moving faster than Frost’s eyes to follow. A flurry of blows came at him, from angles he didn’t think were possible. He deflected each one, barely in time to keep the blade’s white steel away from his flesh. Arioch sneered at him, moving behind him with a swoop of his outstretched wings. “Come now, is that the fighting spirit of someone who wants to wed a vampire? I don’t think she believes you want her, Númenórean. Fight better.”

He was not going to be goaded, not by something so obvious. He remained silent, his breath slow and even. It was his time to charge. He did so, feigning to his right then slashing at the vampire’s coat at the last second, twisting to present less of a target as he stabbed. Predictably, the vampire danced aside, having seen the feint for what it was. He knocked the strike aside with a lazy swipe of his sword. That was what Frost wanted. It was not a bad thing to have a stake when dealing with a vampire. He drew it out and stabbed hard at his exposed hip. The iron dung in through the layers of leather and found purchase. He roared and slammed Frost across the face with a backhand. The Númenórean when skittering. He wiped the blood from his jaw and chuckled. At least he’d been first to draw blood.

Arioch moved even faster now, impossibly. He was on Frost before he could assume even the semblance of a defensive stance. They slammed into each other like two boulders. Frost heard a loud CRACK but felt nothing. They went to the ground, the momentum of Arioch’s charge pushing them beyond the horses and spectators. “Almost believed that one, though my bats have more anger than that.” He mocked.

Frost’s fingers flexed over the hilt of the sword. He’d lost the spike, but he could still get it back if he was fast enough. Webbing slipped from his fingers and formed around the hilt, a delicate but frightfully strong. The webs crawled up the black metal of the blade. He was ready for Arioch’s next charge. He’d seen how fast the creature moved and was able to dodge just in time. He ducked a flash of white, bending his back nearly as far as it could bend, then sprang back, pivoted, and struck at the sword with his own, putting all his strength into knocking the sword free, or at least off balance. Again though, Arioch anticipated that and with moves like a dancer, moved from Frost’s right to his left. Frost’s strike went wide and his blade nearly slipped from his fingers with the resulting miss. He growled furiously. The vampire was playing with him.

“Come, come now, surely you can do better?”

They collided; Frost’s elbow landing squarely in Arioch’s chest. Again, they tumbled backward. He heard a grunt of pain from the vampire. He felt a surge of satisfaction. He dropped the blade, releasing the webbing. He then slammed a fist into the vampire’s face. That move, as barbaric and ill-advised as it was, caught him off guard. Frost punched again, then again, and again. The next strike though was caught and deflected. He knew it was over before the vampire slammed his own mailed fist into Frost’s face. He felt the shock, felt his head rebound off the ground, saw the tiny black stars fill his vision. The vampire’s fist came down again, but he was able to just turn it aside, wrapping the fist in a sticky web to slow the recoil. He tried to knee Arioch in the crotch, to push him off, but his legs didn’t have enough room to move, long as they were, and the struck was cut short. He grabbed the vampire’s throat in desperation, pouring web through him to tighten the noose. He saw the creature’s fangs and nearly blacked out. Arioch’s face transformed into something vulpine, something monstrous, the web snapped, and the fangs were buried in Frost’s neck. He felt them pierce his flesh. There was no pain though, instead, Frost was flooded with a sense of euphoria. He knew he should like what was happening, but half of him wanted Arioch to continue to feed.

Arioch ended the fight. He picked up Frost, his blood spilling down his chin and onto his leather gambeson, and threw him bodily into the air. Frost was only vaguely aware of the sensation of flying before he slammed hard into the earth. Bones cracked. He tried to stand up, but Arioch’s foot slammed into his chest. It felt like getting struck by a wild boar. He flew back, tumbling ass over teakettle until he skittered to a stop. Again, when he tried to stand, to continue the fight, Arioch was already there. He lifted Frost up by his jacket and held him aloft in the air. He laughed, the sound of pealing thunder, and slammed Frost into the ground. Frost didn’t remember what he said after that.

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, The Choose Goose
(Private with Tara)

Finn loved shopping, it was true. Ever since he was a young man (okay, young boy), he been fascinated by the idea of buying and selling and the concept of money. Barliman spent years trying to make sure he understood the financial values of saving and investing. When it came down it, though, Finn was easily distracted by the shiny object. Better with shopping that with other things, he thought. And the Choose Goose was fully of shiny objects. So. Many. Shiny. Objects. Truly, it was a wonder that Finn’s eyes didn’t bug out and he didn’t immediately start grabbing at things. There was a ceramic teas set in the shape of a rabbit, but it seemed to be missing half its pieces; there were several bottles of an expensive looking salve behind a glass case; the next thing that caught the young Edain’s attention was a sword. No, no it was not a sword, it was a work of art masquerading as a sword. His eyes bugged out, opening as wide as saucers. It was so beautiful and so shiny. He didn't actually need a sword, he had the perfect blade wrapped around his wrist right now, a supposedly cursed blade made from a blade of grass from the Blessed Realm.

“I see you’ve found my sword,” said Chyewsgûs, appearing just within Finn’s periphery. “I used it once to fight a goblin horde.” Finn nearly jumped out of his skin. Chyewsgûs was odd. It was not just the crossed eyes, the rhyming speech pattern, or the honking squeak in his voice that reminded him of waterfowl. It was that Chyewsgûs was a complete mystery. Where did he come from? What sort of sordid past did he have? Where were the bodies buried? Finn knew there had to be bodies.

“Your… your sword?” he asked, recovering somewhat. “I didn’t know you had a sword. What’s it’s story?”

The man grinned, his pupils nearly touching they crossed so much. “Oh that’s a tale for sure, but I’m afraid you need a better lure.”

“What?” Finn blinked. What the heck had he just said?

“What can I help you with young Finn and Jake? Winter clothes and perhaps a recipe for chocolate cheesecake?” The proprietor looked at Finn as though this was the most normal exchange in all the world. It wasn’t. Still, Finn had the shopping bug.

“We could definitely use some winter clothes,” Finn’s eyes began to wander toward the wracks of warm clothing displayed along the wall. There was an array of cloaks, some fleece lined pants, a parka, and two sets of snowshoes. It was perfect! It was also a little weird that it was the middle of spring. “And I know Jake would love a recipe for chocolate cheesecake. Oh, and maybe a bottle of that ointment, and maybe a new whetstone, and well I could use an extra pair of socks and…”

Finn really had caught the shopping bug. Jake and Marceline were going to have to drag him away from the shop.

[Baphởmet]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Tara)

He watched the blossoming event with mesmerizing fascination, deep ocean blue eyes fixed on the knife moved through its sanguine dance. She was truly something, this partner he’d found. Not for the first time (not even the first time this night) he told him how fortunate he was. She was magnificent. Backlit by the roaring orange and gold of the fire, wreathed in sacrilegious smoke, she was more regal than the powers in the west. Her eyes reflected starlight with more savage grace than any of the star maidens could have ever hoped to attain. He held her as they watched the man gurgle and bleed out. He had transformed. Where once stood a backward but proud tiller of the land, now a farcical clown laid, drowning in his own blood. He had a part to play in this morality play though. He was the objector to the sacrilegium, the man of faith who performed a heel-face turn to see the error of his way but too late. He was a tragic figure, but one forgotten about as soon as the scene ended. Did he even have a name? Frost considered the twitching body until it slowed and stilled. The objector. That’s all he had been. Now, he was even less than that. He forsook his gods in the last moments, admitted that they were false. But what did that leave him? “If you could cleanse your soul,” Frost said under his breath, “and leave deception far behind, we would never be equal for free I stand, rid of lies, and without lies, you’d be no more.” What happened to this poor sod’s soul was of no consequence to him. He was food for the conqueror worm, not even his sheep would miss him.

He kissed Zôr’s shoulder, leaving a more than playful bite mark. Moving from her, he bent low and took a closer look at what had been the shepherd. The eyes were cloudy sightless, bloodshot as all the veins in his eyes burst in his final painful moments. The man’s final expression was one of utter terror and dismal fear. What had he seen in that final moment? Had he seen the great expanse of the Void? Had he seen Frost and Zôrzimril arrayed as avenging angels with fiery swords and flaming eyes? Had he seen the disappointment in his gods’ eyes? “A pity you didn’t apologize, young fool. You would have been happy to serve her for the rest of your natural life. You chose poorly.”

He touched the wound. The blood was still hot and lively. He pressed his fingers into the wound; the blood flowed faster and more freely. Frost pooled the blood in his left hand and stood up. He faced Zôr, looking into the fathomless depth of her grey eyes. He could drown in those eyes if he was not careful. How many had she beguiled with them? Was he already one of them? Frost thought the question then dismissed it. So what if he was? He dipped his fingers into the blood of his hand and reached out to touch her cheek, staining the perfect sculpture of her jawline, he traced two fingers from below her left ear to her chin, then repeated the gesture on the right side of her face. Finally, he placed his fingers, bloody and carmine, on her lips. “May his blood serve you better, my queen of stolen starlight, than it could have ever served him.” Then he leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth. The heat of her body consumed him, the smell of burning embers and her perfume overwhelmed him, the taste of her lips and blood filled his spirit.

“My love,” he pulled back reluctantly and considered her, “you are the image of the devil himself.”

[Raisins]

Bar-en-Raveara

Ruindil groaned and moved to roll off the bed to get up several days later and failed to realize that that Fuin and Mylien had him right on the edge of the bed and hit the wooden floor with a thud making Fuin roll onto her back and look over at him where he laid sprawled looking up at her with sleepy happy eyes and a cheery little smile on his face as he scratched his bare chest and smacked his lips.

"Mornin' beautiful" He grumbled his voice a touch lower than normal as and pushed himself up onto his elbows before grabbing a fist full of Fuins hair and pulling her off the bed on top of him bringing a grumble from Mylien who was still in the middle of the bed.

"Hnnnnn cold." Was all the two on the floor could make out and Fuin and the two giggled Fuin burying her face in Ruindil hair.

"Ye could join us." Ruindil called out. There was another hnnnn from Mylien and then the soft tumbling sound and then Ruindil groaned as did Fuin.

"You asked for this you fool." Fuin groaned as Mylien giggled, Fuin looked back at Mylien "HOW are you so heavy while being so tiny compared to us? Do you have an anchor somewhere?" Fuin asked shifting her weight and rolling Mylien off of her and caused Ruindil to groan as she put pressure on one side of his body before he tossed her off as well.

The three of them lay on the floor laughing at the insanity of what had just happened when the door swung open and one of the ships quarter masters stepped in to tell them something and blinked for a moment shut his mouth opened his mouth shut it again.

"Spit it out man" Ruindil barked and sat up giving Fuin a swat on her bottom bringing his knees up and resting his elbows on his knees his hands clasped together in front of him.

"Looks like we're gonna be stuck here a while longer we found some rot in Myliens ship."

"PERFECT!" He said jumping up making the quarter master jump back a bit shocked at his Captains reaction. "Tell the men to relax fix the ships I've got something me and me wives need to do."

"We do?" Mylien mumbled and rolled over nuzzling into Fuins side.

"AYE we do. We need horses. Do we have horses love?" Fuins face was screwed up at that request.

"You don't know how to ride horses."

"We'll figure it out we'll have long enough." And Fuin laughed at that,

"I don't think you understand how sore you're both going to be after riding a horse for a day."

"Well how long does it take to get Imladris?" And Fuin sat up.

"Imladris?"

"Aye."

"Imladris. Rivendell. The Home of the Half-elven and the Ost-" She tipped her head pausing in what she was saying realizing just what Ruindil was saying. "You want to meet Afarfin."

"Aye. We've go; at least a few months ta break the poor boy in." Ruindil said with a smile and bent down and picked up Mylien and set her on the bed and headed to the wardrobe in the room and pulled a shirt on and tossed one at Mylien who looked unimpressed at the fabric thrown at her.

"You'll need that long for your arses to recover from riding that much." Fuin muttered standing up and catching a shirt thrown at her the quartermaster looked at Ruindil and Fuin - Ruindil was his Captain, Fuin was the Lady of the house and neither one of them had excused him. Fuin realized this and shooed him with a hand as she headed to finish getting dressed.

"So how far is it?"

"It's a week hard ride with you two I'd say probably three weeks just to get there." Fuin said calmly. "And you two will not be wanting to break in anyone when we arrive. I'll probably need to get you both treated for saddle sores at the house of healing."

"Are the healers there cute?" Fuin for her part gave a snort.

"I suppose so. Not sure they'd be interested in you pity for them." Fuin snickered and Ruindil pouted.

"Aren't you a healer? You can nurse us back to health." Mylien said leaning back swinging her feet off the edge of the bed.

"We'd be better off in a wagon. It'll take longer than riding but I think it'll be faster than dealing with you two fools." Fuin said finally "We'll just have to set a watch and be careful as we won't be able out run anyone wanting to attack us."

"Right. We'll take the wagon, you'll protect us from these land pirates." Ruindil sighed and Mylien walked up behind him and gave him a rub on the back.

"You'll be helping too I will want to sleep occasionally in that time since you won't know how to get to Imladris."

"So... you're going to take us to Imladris?" Mylien asked her eyes wide slightly not sure that her wife was actually agreeing to this.

"Yes. We might as well get this over with - he is an elf of Aman so it will be interesting." Fuin said with a swallow she'd pushed the thought out of her mind so long that she'd figured perhaps they'd forgotten she didn't want to do it but it made sense to get it over with she was trying to decide just what she would do. She was beginning to think that perhaps she'd be better off staying with Ruindil and Mylien. They knew her now, Afarfin only really knew her once upon a time.

Mylien slipped up to her and gave her a hug and ran her fingers through her long hair. "We'll be there with ya we promise, even if I have to stick a rag in the giant fools mouth so he doesn't say something dumb without permission." This brought a chuckle from Fuin.

"Right. We'll need to get the supplies for the trip ready for the three of us."

[Marceline]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, The Choose Goose
(Private with Frost)

Chyewsgûs gave a mad little giggle at Finn’s requests. “A trip to the land of ice and snow! I’ve got all you need - more than you know!” Jake and Marceline exchanged an amused glance as the proprietor of the shop disappeared into a back room. Several long minutes passed with a great number of thumpings, “ooof!”s, and much tinkling of glass.

“Umm, Chywesgûs?” Jake called out. He peered into the dimly-lit back room to see if the man was still alive. The shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen. “You okay in there?”

From behind a great pile of wooden crates, Chywesgûs’s muffled voice replied: “Fear not, Jake the dog! It was just a rogue log!” A massive chunk of log - the tree must have been at least 100 years old - came rolling out of the store room and nearly crashed through the display case of salves. Jake stopped it just in time and set it on one of its a flat ends. Chywesgûs followed shortly thereafter, carrying an armful of things all bundled up in a burlap sack: everything Finn had requested, and more!

“One Frigid Supply Kit! That’s all, and that’s it!” he honked, his voice cracking with glee. He held out a price tag. Jake’s eyes bulged from his skull. He stretched himself into Finn’s backpack and began counting the heavy coins the two had saved up over the last few months.

“Hold on,” said Marceline, floating forward with her arms crossed. “Why’re you charging so much for all this, hmm?”

The shopkeeper tugged on his large, ruffled collar. (He was a very extravagantly-dressed shopkeeper.) He gave a loud, gulping swallow. “No more than you’ve got - but I’ll own, it’s a lot!”

Marceline’s eyebrows disappeared into the dark hair falling across her face. She was clearly doubtful that this random sack of stuff would be worth the cost. “Let’s get into that bag and have a look, shall we?” she said. Jake couldn’t help himself - he gave one of the gold coins a kiss and emerged from Finn’s pack.

He and the vampire queen moved forward, beckoning Finn to join them. “Aha!” Marceline cried, withdrawing a solid gold thimble from the bag. “What’s this doing here? How is this thing going to help us on our trip up north?” She shoved the item under Chywesgûs’s nose, demanding his attention. “Or were you just going to overcharge us for the weight of this thimble in gold?”

Chywesgûs merely gaped his surprise at being caught out.

“Hmm,” Jake mumbled, still rummaging through the bag. “Well, the rest of the stuff looks legit. We got that ointment, parkas, warm cozy pants, a dog-shaped coat for me, a fur cloak or three, some snowshoes, flint, ointment, a whetstone, a bunch of big socks - are your feet really this big, Finn? - and several pairs of hand-knitted mittens. I think this checks out.” He did hold up a rather large sock for Finn to inspect, just in case it was of an unrealistic size.

“All right,” said Marceline, “how much for all that stuff - without the thimble?”

[Moriel]

Storm Crows
The Ettenmoors
(Private with Frost and Tara)

Of all the things that had happened so far on this day, being lifted bodily and swept through the air by a vampire might have been the one Hrafnhildr least expected. The points of Keziah’s nails dug into her shoulders, followed immediately by the disconcerting sensation of her feet leaving the earth and traveling upward. Hrafnhildr had jumped from many a precipitous ledge in her time, and found that she infinitely preferred the sensation of falling to this. Fortunately, it was soon ended: they alighted upon the battlement she had come from. Keziah whispered in her ear, looming over her from behind, and Hrafnhildr’s face tightened. So. She knew. To how mnay had the knowledge spread? Not to Frost, that was certain. Hrafnhildr watched him as he prepared, drawing his sword and spitting the challenge back in Arioch’s teeth. It was clear that the man did not want this fight- he would have been insane to desire it- but was going to engage rather than face whatever punishment might come from refusal. Hrafnhildr was cleared of her first task then, for it did not seem that Frost would come straight for Keziah. As for the second, her defense of the vampires should Frost emerge the victor? She judged there was no need to worry about that. Clearly, the Lossoth woman had come off on the better end of this bargain.

Nevertheless, she watched him with folded arms and narrowed eyes. This would be the first time she had seen Frost fight, and even to herself Hrafnhildr admitted a curiosity. How long would he last? What skill would he show before his defeat? Would he provoke Arioch sufficiently to gain his death? Such a result would lead to consequences Hrafnhildr did not look forward to, but it would be the Delgaran’s own fault for entrusting the pirate to a vampire before her. The combatants feinted and tested one another, a typical duel’s beginning. Frost struck Arioch: unexpected that he should draw blood first, but he was quickly matched in that by the vampire’s retaliation. She watched the mirth cross Frost’s face, and shook her head. Mistake. Their bodies collided and both went tumbling to the ground, Frost eclipsed by the mass that was Arioch. Then, something unexpected: from Frost’s fingers came some kind of viscous material, forming around his hand and sword. Hrafnhildr leaned forward as if to see better, and felt Keziah do the same behind her. But it was over: Hrafnhildr could see that in the effortless way Arioch parried the next blow. No matter what tricks Frost might have up his sleeve, they were no match for the power of this beast.

“If he kills him, he’ll have the Iron Queen to answer to,” she muttered, and Keziah laughed, squeezing her shoulders tighter.

“He won’t kill him. The man isn’t worthy of the death Arioch would give him.”

Of all things, then, Frost chose to punch Arioch in the face. Hrafnhildr had to give it to him, the boldness and idiocy of this move did allow Frost to land a substantial hit. But the return blow was far more powerful: wrapped in mail, the fist of the vampire smashed Frost’s face into bloody rebound. Again he responded with, now that she saw them again, what Hrafnhildr perceived to be webs: but he had pushed the vampire a fraction too far. Arioch’s face and figure transformed from their elven eeriness into something monstrous and batlike, his canines lengthening into wicked fangs, which he plunged into Frost’s throat. Keziah’s scream of victory rang in Hrafnhildr’s ears. She felt her shoulders released, then the rush of air as Keziah unfurled her wings; then, she was buffeted forward and off the edge of the battlement as the vampires took flight again, focused only on the figure of her lover below, as the threw Frost to the ground.

Keziah swooped downward, flaring her wings at the last possible second to strike the ground with finality. The pales of her irises shone, and her bloody-crimson corneas deepened, as if filled with the fresh blood of her lover’s victim. “Arioch!” she cried in triumph, and flew to him with scarcely the motion of feet, as if pulled to his side by the magnetism of the earth. Their bodies collided, with as much force as those of he and Frost in their duel, but the vampires remained upright; Keziah’s arms and wings wrapped about him again, and her mouth locked to his. He tasted of the man’s blood; it was fresh and wet on him, and she growled, the nails of her fingers and fangs of her mouth alike lengthening with bat-fell as she tasted it; she broke the kiss, only to run tongue and lips over Arioch’s chin, where the precious fluid coated his face; she consumed the essence of the Challenger and reveled in it. With the crushing force of her lust, Keziah kissed Arioch again, her talons clenched in his hair. When at last they broke apart, it was to Keziah’s sigh of ecstasy.

“I am yours,” she breathed, “Forever.”

Meanwhile, Hrafnhildr had tumbled through the air, thrown from her perch by Keziah’s departure. She managed to right herself and landed on her feet, hard, on the stones of the courtyard below, sinking her knees into a splayed stance to absorb the blow. With a grunt, she straightened and, sparing but a glance to the tangle of vampires that was Arioch and Keziah, strode instead toward the crumpled figure on the ground that was Frost. The closer she came, the worse he looked, bloody and broken- but clearly alive. When Hrafnhildr reached him, she lowered one knee to the ground, kneeling at his side and leaning over him to look down at his battered face.

“You look terrible.”

[Marceline]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Frost)

The dead man slumped from his knees to lie prostrate upon the ground. He had died as he had lived: anonymous, unknown, and utterly insignificant to the gods he loved. Even if they were there, dancing and singing and feasting across the seas of this great broken world, why should they know who he was, let alone the mundane details of his piety? He was but one of millions to walk the earth. No deed of his would have earned him special attention - certainly, no envoys of the Valar arrived in their midst to spirit away his soul like an honor guard. In a way, his death had served more purpose than his life: he had borne witness to the profane flames and offered Zôrzimril an outlet for the rage which so often bubbled beneath the silky surface she presented to society.

Zôr stood and allowed herself to be enveloped in Frost’s arms. She felt comfort there, and power. She could slip into and out of those arms as she pleased, but they were always there to receive her when she was ready to return. She took slow, deep breaths in spite of the smoke, sinking into a state of blissful calm while the crackling flames lent a peaceful rhythm to the scene. The tranquility was short-lived: his bite to her shoulder elicited a tiny gasp, and she felt herself tense with surprise.

Frost left her then to survey their human victim. Zôrzimril watched him crouch low and saw his lips form whispered words she could not hear. She smiled, knowing that those words would follow the man even beyond the confines of mortality, taunting or tormenting him however Frost designed. Words are more than wind, she had learned.

He returned to her with a handful of blood. The stuff still shone with a slick, oily sheen, and she wondered vaguely how it would taste. Would a pious dead man’s blood taste different than the small spatters she had tasted by accident during her messier jobs in Umbar? Perhaps they would drink to the demise of the gods burning bright in the night, and then she would find out. Zôr tilted her chin upward to return Frost’s gaze, searching out the nuance in his features as he considered her. Was that merely lust she saw in his eyes, or more? A slight smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Then he slid his fingers, warm and wet, along her jawline. When he brought them to her lips, she shivered and resisted the impulse to lick away the blood - perhaps there was some ritual he had in mind.

“May his blood serve you better, my queen of stolen starlight, than it could have ever served him,” he said. He brought his lips to hers, and she leaned up and into him. This was no arcane rite - just passion bathed in blood. She tasted copper and life and lust and death and felt a knot of desire twist at her core. She tasted the same power she felt in Frost’s embrace and found she wanted to taste it again and again. When he pulled away, she longed for his lips to return to hers.

“The devil must take on many forms, if he looks anything like me,” she murmured, lifting a hand to push away a lock of long hair blowing across his face.

The flames continued their merry dance and, for an instant, she saw a softer version of his features: full-lipped, with wider ocean blue eyes rimmed by long lashes. She raised a finger to touch those lush lips, but then they were gone, and Frost stood looking down at her as before. She could only conclude that the firelight was mischievous tonight. Still, she traced the edges of his lips, smeared as they were with the blood he’d shared with her, with one fingertip. Then, she led him by the hand away from the dead man. The blood Frost had gathered spilled onto and through her palm and fingers as they entwined with his, and a trail of droplets marked their path through the grass.

Having put the massive fire between them and the dead man’s body, Zôrzimril stopped. She stared into the flames for a while, silent and thoughtful. At last, she turned to face Frost once more.

“The stars fled the skies, knowing you and I would be here tonight. Shall we make ourselves a bed of grass and keep them at bay?”

[Raisins]

Somewhere near Tharbad

Fuin was doing her absolute best not to laugh as Ruindil and Mylien were both done with the wagon and were lazing about as if they were children. Which compared to her they were.

"Why couldn't we ride horses again?" Ruindil asked as he helped Fuin load their camp back into the back of the small wagon.

"Because we'd have not made it out of the forest before you and Mylien would be crying because your arses would be so sore and covered in sores we had to turn back." She said calmly looking at him.

"This bloody wagon is making me sore from how long its taking." Ruindil griped and Fuin looked at him and shook her head. "I'll take you riding for a whole day when we get to Imladris on one of the calmer horses. I don't have enough calm horses in my stables. You normally travel by ship not horse." She said calmly.

"We're gonna have to learn if we are going to visit you in Imladris more often." Mylien said joining in with Ruindil in her complaint and Fuin had to stop and look at them as she moved to harness the horses and tie Lune off to the back of the cart. "Can't one of us ride Lune?"

Fuin snorted at this and shook her head. "Lune is not the horse for either of you to learn on, Lisse maybe but she is hauling the wagon. Lune is a warhorse and is trained primarily for one rider an experienced rider might manage him... but you." Fuin shook her head. "He'd buck you off and stomp on you until you were dead."

"He wouldn't"

"He absolutely would."

He wouldn't I-"

"Pat him." Fuin said and Ruindils eyes went wide and he looked between her and then at the horse who snorted and looked at the massive red haired Gondorian. Fuin sat waiting. "Go on then give Lune a nice pat on the side of his head."

"He'll bite me." Ruindil said

"And you think either of you can ride him if you can't even pat him."

Mylien for her part laughed. "Right we'll learn in Imladris." With that Mylien hopped up onto the back of the wagon and sat their kicking her legs smiling at her two much taller lovers.

"Glad one of you is as smart as you are pretty." Fuin said and leaned in and give the dark skinned woman a kiss before she looked at Ruindil. "Get in pretty boy."

Ruindil gave a little scowl pout but hopped up onto the wagon beside Mylien and they continued on towards Imladris.

[Baphởmet]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin
(Private with Tara)

His eyes sparkled with rapacious, carnal mischief. They did indeed make a bed of grass, soft and spongy, and lay wrapped and entwined with one another, arms, legs, and fingers. The roar of the fire and the pop and snap of devoured wood were punctuated throughout the night with soft moans and low gasps. The heat of the Númenóreans’ passions nearly matched the fire and certainly lasted longer. The stars hid their faces in terror and shame behind gloomy grey clouds until the sun appeared in the east, a great paper lantern spreading pale silvery light across the sky. Frost had barely slept that night. His hunger and need had been too great, too edacious for the whispers of sleep to be heard. Even as he stirred from the light trance, he found himself brimming with energy. His clothing had been flung away and was now likely soaking up the morning dew. The air was chill and turned his skin to gooseprickles. He inhaled the cool, fresh air. There was still a hint of smoke on the wind, it flavored the air deliciously. The ruins behind them had burned down to the embers and smoldered still. The fire, despite the great conflagration, had not spread to the surrounding areas; not a blade of grass outside the ruin was singed, and not a leaf was scorched. Frost and Zôr had wished the destruction of the shrine, they’d felt no need to destroy the land about it. It was no fault of the trees and the hills that they had been chosen to host such a monument of depravity. They had done nothing to deserve the death the ruins had and neither Frost nor Zôr wished them any ill will. Indeed, as Frost stood and stretched, he saw that the trees and grass looked a little brighter, a little greener, a little more alive. The grass was soft underfoot, it felt blissful.

Zôr looked as though she was still asleep. She’d been as greedy and energetic as he had, it was no wonder she had worn herself out. He looked at her features closely, his eyes roaming over every curve and line. She was a panther, sleek and powerful, with an allure that would make even the wariest prey fall victim to her charms. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was another unwary prey of hers. If that were true, whatever torments she had in mind would pale in comparison to the pleasures they had shared, epicurean and otherwise. The more he looked at her though, the more he remembered that brief image the firelight had shown him the night before. The image that was Zôr but was not Zôr; the hard, angular, masculine lines to her chin and jawline, the broadness of her shoulders, and the hardness in her eyes. What had that been? If it had been just a trick of the light then he would have dismissed it as such, but the more he thought about it, the less he could see it as a trick of shadows and smoke. Fire destroys, but it also allows for new growth. Had he seen something new being seeded within his paramour? He found that the possibility attracted him even more to her. Perhaps, there was a dimensionality of fluidity they shared? There were times when he felt similar when the outward shell he wore did not accurately represent the feelings he had inside. Did that part of him ever show?

That was a conversation for another time though. Frost could feel the heat rising in his chest, and with that heat came the ever-present hunger within him. He flexed his fingers, curling them into fists and back out. He stretched back out on the grass and traced a finger from Zôr’s shoulder down to her hip. He pressed his lips along her side and whispered hungrily. “It is time to awaken, my devilishly darling. We have so much to do.”

[Baphởmet]

What Have You Done?
Bree Town, The Choose Goose
(Private with Tara)

His feet weren’t that big. Were they? Finn looked at the inordinately huge pile of socks on table and was caught between grinning at the massive amounts of socks (he just likes socks guys, come on) and frowning in embarrassment. His feet were large. They always had been. When he was younger (like three years ago) he thought that had meant he was going to start a growth spurt soon and be as tall as the Rangers that prowled about the northern lands. Well, that hadn’t happened yet. He just had big feet. Big feet were harder to keep warm because of… well they were bigger. Anyway, none of that was the point of anything. Finn’s cheeks did redden in the end as he hastily scooped all the beautiful socks into the back (minus the golden thimble). If he was being honest, the young Edain was now fascinated with the thimble. What did it do? Why was Chyewsgûs trying to get rid of it? Was it cursed Númenórean gold? Did it lead to cursed Númenórean gold? Was it an oracle that gave him nightmares? Was it a divining rod that searched for gold? There were too many possibilities! Finn looked at the gold thimble a second too long. Just as he was about to tear his eyes away from it, Chyewsgûs saw, and his mismatched crossed eyes perked up. A strange expression crossed his face, something between enthusiasm, mischief, and relief.

“It looks like to me like our young Finn has some questions, I had better make sure I give him the right impression. That thimble, you see dear boy, once belonged to a spirit I employ.”

Finn’s eyes soon began as round as dinner plates. It was a haunted thimble! He was about to reach for it when something stopped him. It wasn’t Jake or Marceline, they were too far away from him to have grabbed him. He looked at his wrist. The grass sword! It hadn’t formed a full blade yet, just a dagger, but it was blocking his path to the thimble, knocking against the counter. Finn tried to reach again but again the grass sword blocked his path. He tilted his hand, but even as the angle changed, the sword still stopped him. He tried his other hand and the grass only smacked it away.

“Argh!” he shouted and glared at the viridian-colored item wrapped carefully around his wrist. “Why won’t you let me touch it?” The grass sword, naturally, didn’t answer (because it wasn’t one of those kinds of blades).

“Oh allow me,” said the foppishly dressed man, picking up the thimble. “Just say you’ll agree.”

What was going on here? A bead of sweat dripped down Finn’s cheek. “I… uh…” Crossed-eyes sort of looked in his, greed and something more malicious flickering. “I…”

He coughed. “I think this looks like all we’re gonna need. Thank you Chyewsgûs. We’ll be going now. Here’s the money. I hope you have a good day. Good-bye now!” Finn, not even bothering to ask how much the equipment was going to be without the thimble, emptied his pocket and let a dozen or so gold coins roll off the counter. He was so disturbed by the man’s eager expression (and his more and more crossed eyes) that he didn’t even hear his creepy rhythmic response.

He carried the packs in the most awkward, definitely-going-to-give-him-a-backache fashion out the door, not even waiting for Jake or Marcy. He did though, turn and look at the thimble, still on the counter where it sat, once last time before he hit the streets of Bree.

[Raisins]

The Hoarwell River

Fuin had walked the horses westward along the banks of the Hoarwell cursing their luck and Ruindil and Mylien for their part were not helping her mood at all and she had to remind herself that they honestly knew almost nothing about traveling by horse, and that everything they had learned so far in their short lives had been learned on this trip.

"Shut up about when we are going to start heading north east again unless you bloody well want to build a boat that can float us across the bleeding river." She snapped and Mylien and Ruindils eyes both went wide and they both did as they were told Fuin glared at them both even as they both looked quite upset that she'd yelled at them, they had not actively been trying to frustrate her, or upset her and Ruindil wrapped an arm around Mylien and Fuin realized she'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry." She said softly and Ruindil looked up at her his own eyes flashing angrily it was one thing to yell at him, when he was being stupid but he did not take well to Mylien being yelled at even if it was by Fuin. Nobody got to yell at her unless it was really really well deserved. "I'm tired, and the rivers flooded there's no way we can safely cross, I shouldn't have yelled at you for that."

"Maybe we should stop and have a break then?" Mylien offered and Fuin for her part debated on refusing that this would take them days to get around as they would need to go up to the last bridge and take the road there, if they couldn't find a place to ford soon but stopped herself.

"Sure." She said softly and pulled up the cart there was no better or worse place to stop where they were. She crawled into the back of the wagon and took a hold of her husband and wifes hands and looked at them. "I really am sorry for yelling." Ruindil for his part looked her over and gave a nod and wrapped his other arm around her.

"It's alright love but yer not standing watch tanight if yer tired enough yer barkin at us." He pulled her hugging her tightly and she wrinkled her nose.

"I think I might bark at you some more." She said with a laugh, "I think the lot of us could use a bath." Ruindil gave a sniff and then nodded.

"Aye we be ripe." With that he picked up Mylien over his shoulder and carried her off the back of the cart jumping down off of it and marched straight for the river leaving Fuin in the cart laughing and Mylien kicking and screaming about not wanting her good leather boots ruined in the water. Fuin chased after them and quickly pulled Myliens boots off as well as her leather pants which would take far too long to dry before Ruindil tossed her into the water. Fuin was busy taking off her own boots when suddenly she felt arms around her waist and she struggled as well.

"No no! My boots and bracers!" She cried out her quiver at least was still on the cart so it and the bow were safe from water damage.

"'Urry up!" Ruindil bellowed and began counting down from ten Fuin barely managed to get the last boot off having deciding her bracers were more important to save. before she splashed into the water beside Mylien who promptly used Fuin to climb up like a tree in the cold water of the Hoarwell.

Ruindil looked at the two of them both of them standing their their hair soaked and sticking to their bodies and their clothing clinging to them, dripping with water a grin on his face. "Looks a wee pick cold thanks fer testing tha wat'r fer me I think I"ll skip bathing here."

Mylien and Fuin looked at each other. "AH NA YE DON"T YE FURRY BASTARD!" Mylien yelled and practically leapt off Fuin so that she was only in shallow water chasing after Ruindil who took off in fear. Fuin was swift to follow and soon he found himself stripped of his boots, they weren't so kind as to remove his leather pants - pay back for tossing them in and being dragged quite literally by his beard by Mylien while Fuin had one of his legs making it almost impossible for him to escape properly his arms flapping as he worked to keep his foot beneath him as they hopped him further and further into the river. It was bad enough at his ankles, his knee was worse, he didn't want to go any deeper but Mylien was unperterbed by the fact she was already up to her mid thigh having been soaked by him and his willingness to toss them into the water. She kept going until half of Middle earth could hear the shriek of a man who had gone too far into very cold water at which point she dunked his head under and Fuin tossed his leg up submerging him entirely before grabbing Mylien and heading back closer to shore.

"THA WAS NO FAIR YE BANSHEES." Ruindil bellowed as he came up gasping for air.

"Yer the one tha shrieked like one the minute yer plums touched the water"

"They're probably berries now." Ruindil looked at Mylien and then at Fuin and then at Mylien again.

"I like ye more anow. She already called me stupid and that I'm teeny."

"She probably ain't wrong love. Ye went up what are them things called with the voice love?" She looked at Fuin.

"Octave. I'd say at least two."

"Ye two octaves." With that the two women stripped of the wet clothing began washing themselves and the shirts so that they could get out of the cold water while Ruindil pouted still waist deep.

"Come on love, they'll stay that small if you don't get out of the water soon." This got him to move and he came towards the shore and stripped off his jacket tossing it to the shore, and stripping and washing himself and his clothing.


***

The three of them sat curled up in blankets that they had brought a small fire burning at their feet there wasn't much here to burn but Fuin had managed to find it. Ruindil for his part was quite firm about Fuin not taking a watch tonight, she had been the one driving the cart since they'd left Bar en Raveara. Mylien was perched up on the cart dressed in clean dry clothing on first watch while Ruindil made sure that Fuin slept and not that weird elven sleeping that she did sometimes with her eyes open half awake. No He kept her eyes buried in his beard or his lips pressed against at least one eyelid so that he was certain her eyes were shut. Around them there were distant sounds of coyotes howling, and the chirping of crickets and other animals, it was all so very interesting to listen to and strange for them, and they wondered just how much she'd protected them from that she was so exhausted? She clearly could not have been sleeping at all even when she was on watch though she promised them she was doing the half sleeping thing she'd explained to them that elves could do. Waking dreams. Some sort of nonsense like that.

He had a hard time believing it but she'd shown them once and it had been, strange - in fact it had been one of the first things she'd taught them about because she often had a hard time sleeping, and Ruindil had found out that she slept best when she was pinned between the two of them, made her feel safe he was guessing, but just him would have to do for now.

[Raisins]

4th Age - Bar en Raveara

Mylien was on hawk duty when the great bird arrived exhausted from it's long flights immediately she handed the bird a squirrel to eat that another elf had caught in the forest and snatched the small tube fastened to its leg and noticed that there was a new seal upon it. She ran to a bell to get everyone moving before she made it down from the tower.

She broke it open and began reading as she raced down the stairs running into Ruindil who was on his way up knowing what the bell meant.

"Where is she."

"Void." Mylien said looking up at Ruindil. "She's in Minas Tirith."

"Great we can get there faster less horseback riding." Ruindil cried lifting Mylien up and spinning about before dragging her down the stairs at a sprint
"I can't got to Dol Amroth! They want me dead there!" She cried out and Ruindil hesitated for only a moment before answering

"Not going to Dolly, we can go to Harlond and skip Dol Amroth entirely with yer ship 'er draft is shallow enough ferr the Anduin - asides yer trial was fifteen years ago ye've not been seen in Dolly or Gondor since then we've been careful o' that and we've got a poncy elf lord looking type with us." Ruindil said as they burst into the courtyard at the same time and Afarfin.

"She's in Minas Tirith!" Ruindil shouted and the men and women of the house began to scurry to get the ship ready "Pull the pirate flags from Limbërámë! Only Fuin's flag and signal flags! And all the men that can row! We've got five days to make the journey to the port of Harlond- we've not time ta wait on Manwe and his wind and someone make an offering to Osse an' Uinen! We need fair an' swift weather on the coasts! Tides leaving before mid afternoon we're going with it!"

Afarfin for his part blinked and nodded - he was no sailor. Ruindil was in charge of that, he headed off to do that offering to Osse and Uinen that sounded like something he could do when Mylien grabbed him. "We need to get disguises for myself and Ruindil we're pirates and the crown of Dol Amroth ain't to fond of us." Afarfin paused and nodded. "Handmaiden and head of house?" He said and Mylien scowled but nodded. "Right lets go get the clothing you'll need for that then do that offering together, best coming from us."

[Marceline]

Dusk, and Her Embrace
A Nameless Elven Ruin, Eriador
(Private with Frost)

The slow death of the fire they had brought into the world was no sad thing. Zôrzimril found that the gradual descent into darkness and stillness had been, strangely, fuel for her desires. She thanked the dark skies above that the fire died slowly. As it waned, her enthusiasm waxed. Eventually, she lay still in Frost’s arms and drifted off to sleep, the scent of smoke in her nostrils and the euphoria at all they had done a fading tingling in all her limbs. She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

In the beginning, her dreams were strange, fleeting glimpses of her youth in Umbar. She saw herself facing down the first man she’d killed, then she saw herself bringing her dagger to the throat of one particularly aggressive street urchin who thought he could outfox her. She saw her first love and her first true enemy, both of them gazing at her as if they had never seen her before. She could not be sure what it was they saw in her that made their smiles falter, but something about her had that effect. Eventually, their faces faded to darkness and she opened her eyes to a room filled with golden light, dust motes dancing in the evening’s rays.

Then, she found herself walking into a familiar room. It was a basement, but a sumptuous one. The roaring fires and thick carpets on the floors combated the damp chill of such subterranean spaces, and she walked confidently through the room toward a great mahogany chair. She sat and felt strong. She wore loose black pants and a flowing shirt with leather cording at the collar. She crossed one leg over the other, taking for granted that she did not need to smooth her skirts to maintain her decency, and leaned back into the chair’s depths. It was by no means a comfortable seat, but it projected the same power she felt within her flesh.

A man with grey in his hair rounded the corner which led from the stairs. She had been waiting for him, but he still surprised her with his silent footsteps. He looked upon her with amusement in his eyes.

“Well, Zôrzimril,” he began. He dragged a chair from a large table to face her and sat. A huge desk which matched her chair was all that stood between them. He crossed his legs, too. “It seems we underestimated you. Tell me, how do you intend to keep all of this?” He gestured one arm vaguely around the room, indicating the wealth and power and influence she had taken.

She felt her blood boil with anger: this man was not one to ask such questions idly. There was a challenge in those words. She rose and walked around the desk to lean against it. There was no reason to keep that hulking thing between them. She crossed her arms and looked him up and down. He was looking thinner these days, but she had to be stop herself from equating that with weakness.

“I’m sure that more of what I’ve been doing will suffice,” she murmured. The man laughed a dismissive, cruel laugh.

“Will it? Your beauty is noteworthy,” he asked, nodding to her in acknowledgement of her appearance, “but is it enough?”

She watched his eyes travel over her, from her lush dark hair to her chest to her hips and down to her feet. The word “beauty” irked her. At that moment, she did not want to be beautiful. Charming, fine. Alluring, even, would have been acceptable. But beautiful? That word somehow felt like a slight, much as she made of her looks when the mood struck her. What word would she have preferred? Devilish? Handsome?

In her sleep in the cool night air, she shivered.